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MRS. BEN DARBY. 

Pi/Ut^O* QlsyC, Ht 





MRS. BEN DARBY. 


Cliaftti 1. 

The wind from tlie north had stripped the mountains of 
their verdure, save where the clusters of evergreens clung 
to the crevices of the rocks and the blasted elms. The 
winter storm whistled rudely through the deep valleys, and 
away over the summits of the gray rocks that overhung the 
mountain’s brow. The birds had gone in pursuit of a 
warmer climate and a brighter sky. The deer and other 
wild animals had taken up their winter-quarters in the 
cavernous recesses of the Blue-Ridge. The snow had been 
falling all day, and lay deep down in the valley and on the 
fields. Night came on early ; the cattle had sought the 
shelter of the barn, surrounded with its huge stacks of hay, 
and with inimitable patience and resignation turned their 
hacks to the tempest. All was cold and dreary without, 
but comfort reigned in the little parlor at Wolf- Gap. A huge 
log-fire, encouraged by pine-knots, blazed on the hearth, 
and was reflected from every corner of the spacious apart- 
ment. The little old-fashioned, selfish-looking tea-table, 
the unshared property of the former inhabitant of the cot- 
tage, still occupied its corner, graced with its silver tea-urn 
and its china cups. Mr. Temple sat by the candle-stand, 
reading the Richmond Enquirer and the Petersburg Intel- 
ligencer. What had he to do with storms, either moral, 

( 5 ) 


6 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


political or elementary ? True, he read of the tumults 
abroad ; of shipwrecks on the coast of Africa ; of earth- 
quakes in Florida ; of mail-stage accidents, and of the dis- 
appearance of an elderly gentleman from the Baltimore 
packet, who never had been heard of since, and was sup- 
posed to be drowned. 

The stormy winds rattled the window-blinds, and lashed 
the long branches of the gigantic willow against the gable- 
end of the house. Nothing disturbed Mr. Temple — all 
about him was comfort. The tea-kettle was simmering be- 
fore the fire, sending out its diminutive locomotive whistle 
with its puffs of steam. 

Mr. Temple was a popular man in his county, and was 
highly esteemed by all who knew him ; order and system 
were in all his actions and domestic arrangements; the 
returns of the seasons and changes of the weather never 
found him unprepared or unsettled. Everything around 
him was sheltered from the storm — all went on like clock- 
work. The little tea-kettle still simmered and puffed at 
“ the top of its bent/’ when the loud barking of the dogs and 
the trampings of a horse were heard on the new-fallen snow. 
Then at the big gate was heard the salutation of some one, 
“ Halloo ! the house, ” and before Mr. Temple had folded 
his paper and laid it aside, a loud rap announced a visitor. 

The servant opened the parlor door, and a young 
man with a coarse overcoat, stood in the center of the 
room. He held a large bundle under the folds of his coat, 
which he appeared to handle carefully and very suspi- 
ciously. 

“ How do you do ’Squire ?” said he, taking off his hat ; 

“ I hope I find you well.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


7 


“ Ah, Larkins, is it you ; what brings you out on such a 
night ?” 

“ You may well ask that question, ’Squire, for it is an 
awful stormy night ; the snow is a foot deep, at least, and 
the wind blows a perfect hurricane. It comes down from 
the mountains with a perfect rush. Hush,” continued he, 
shaking the bundle under his arm, “ where is Miss Paulina ?” 

“ Take a seat, Peter, she will be in immediately.” 

“ I have brought her a Christmas gift, sir, and I am in 
a great hurry, it is growing late and getting colder, you see, 
sir. I have come from the Cross-Keys since sundown, and 
the snow balls so under the horse’s feet that I couldn’t make 
any way at all hardly.” 

“Well, Larkins, lay the bundle on the table, Miss Temple 
is much obliged to you for your present.” 

Here Mr. Temple was interrupted by the mysterious move- 
ments of his visitor, who began to draw off the coverings 
which enveloped what he termed his Christmas-gift. A pair 
of little feet presented themselves to view, then a small head, 
with black, curly hair, and a gipsy-like eye peered out from 
the cape of his coat, and looked wildly about the room. 

“ Larkins, are you drunk ?” inquired the Squire. 

“Sober as a judge, Squire,” returned Larkins, “I have not 
drank a drop for a week, as I knows of, and if I had it is likely 
I would have known it, for I generally feel it ; you know it 
pervades the whole system ; but, Squire, I can keep from 
it when there is a needcessity, and I pities the man that 
can’t. But, see here. Miss Paulina, aint this worth picking 
up on the ” 

“Oh! what a beauty,” cried Miss Temple, who stood in 
the door perfectly astonished at the unexpected stranger. 


8 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Larkins had seated himself, and held the infant on his 
knee, strolling back with his rough hand the silken ringlets 
from its cold face. The baby looked up slyly into the face 
of its kind nurse, then turning its eyes suddenly toward 
Mr. Temple, a beautiful smile played over her features, and 
reaching out both hands toward him, she struggled to get 
to him. Mr. Temple could not resist the appeal ; he took 
it in his arms, and did his best to hold it comfortably, but, 
like a green politician just sworn into office, he did not ex- 
actly understand how to handle the affair, but he was in for 
it and had to go it. 

“ Now, Squire, I will just tell you how it all happened ; 
I han’t had anything in the house to drink for a month of 
Sundays, so I thought, as Christmas was hard-by that this 
was a good time to treat resolution, so I took my bottle and 
started off to the forks of the road to get it filled; so just as 
I got in sight of the Cross-Keys I met a gentleman riding 
very fast; he slackened his pace when he seed me coming, 
and drawing up his crittur under the big walnut tree by the 
blacksmith’s shop, called to me : 

“ ‘ Peter Larkins,’ said he, ‘ if I am not mistaken?’ 
* Peter Larkins, says I, and no mistake.’ « Peter,’ 
says he, ‘ are you sure you are sober ?’ ‘ I don’t think, 

says I, that you can be very well acquainted with me, and 
make such insinuations.’ * Well, Larkins,’ says he, ‘ I 
know you of old, and I suppose, by this time, you know 
me.’ ‘ I don’t know as I ever laid eyes on you before, 
says I.’ ‘ Well, Peter,’ says he, 4 1 want you to take 

this child to the ‘ Gap.’ ” For the first time I discovered 
he had something under his cloak. ‘ I have just left the 
stage, and must return in time to take it, when it passes 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


9 


down to night ; you must place this child in the hands of its 
aunt.’ ” 

“Oh ! it is our own dear little Elinor,” cried Miss Tem- 
ple, throwing herself on her knees before it. “ Oh ! what 
a sweet darling it is.” 

Mr. Temple pressed the child closely to his bosom with 
a vehemence unusual to him. It was sometime before 
Larkins could speak ; at last he broke the silence in a voice 
a little husky : 

“I always heard say, that blood was thicker than water.” 

“Where is my son, Peter?” asked Mr. Larkins. 

“Well, sir, he bid me bring the child to Miss Temple, 
and tell her to guard her well, for she was all he had left. 
I insisted on his coming with me also, but he said he had 
not a moment to lose, and as he had met me he would re- 
turn at once. He gave me the child; it was asleep; I came 
on as fast as the nature of the case would permit. So you 
see, Squire, that Peter Larkins can be depended on in a 
pinch.” 

“I would have trusted you myself, coming this end of 
the road ; but did my son say anything about his wife ; can 
she have left him ?” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if she was dead,” said Peter, “for 
he looked like he missed something. So Squire, you would 
not have trusted me, if I had been going toward the forks 
of the road, or the * Cross-Keys/ hey Squire ?” 

“You have done bravely, Peter,” said Mr. Temple, 
“you see Paulina is delighted with her Christmas-gift.” 

Peter was forced to stay to supper, but Miss Temple was 
so excited, that she could scarcely make tea, or perform 


10 


Mrs. Ben Darby.? 


the duties of the table ; and long after Peter had left the 
cottage, and her father had retired to rest, she sat by the 
fire, holding her beautiful niece in her lap, gazing on its 
infantine features, and looking into its dark, brilliant eyes, 
shaded with long lashes ; she examined its tiny fingers, 
with their rosy nails, and the dimples in its flushed cheeks, 
and she lavished upon it the most endearing epithets. At 
length she placed it in her own bed, drew the curtains 
around it, and kneeling down by the side, thanked Heaven 
that she had something to love — something to live for — one 
sweet tie of kindred affection to cheer her solitary way. 

Miss Temple had never married, and every one said she 
would live and die an old maid. There was a mystery 
about it that had elicited many conjectures, but time, that 
great tell-tale, passed on without making any revelations ; 
and the little circle in which she moved, became accus- 
tomed to see her preside over her father’s household with 
urbanity, zeal, and uniform decorum. If she had ever 
suffered a sorrow, or been dissatisfied in her youthful days, 
one thing was certain, it had not stolen the rose from her 
cheek, or the luster from her eye, nor had it left a trace 
upon her brow. It had never paralyzed the quick emotions 
of her heart — a heart overflowing with all the kind sensibili- 
ties of her sex. She lived in doing good — in making others 
better and happier. She had been very lovely in person. 
It is true, time had brushed off the first tints of youth, but 
had left her the full grace of womanhood. 

The experience of man leads back upon a world of vicis- 
situdes, but that of an old maid — who can trace it ? Her 
life is made up of so many trials and perplexities, uncared 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


11 


for and unshared. Let her lot fall where it may, there is 
nothing left her but endurance and privation. 

I have always believed that the divine Giver of all good, 
holds in reversion a double portion of heavenly happiness for 
her who has to stem the current of life alone — to buffet 
the waves of worldly contamination, unshielded and un- 
sustained by earthly companionship. 


12 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Cljajttn 2. 

We were young, when you and I 
Talked of golden things together, 

Of love and rhymes, of books and men, 

Ah, our hearts were buoyant then, 

As the wild goose feather. Barry Cornwall. 

Henry Temple, the father of Elinor, was a noble, 
frank, and polished gentleman. He possessed that amenity 
of manners so very pleasing, yet so frequently the vail of 
evil purposes. With him, it was the natural result of kindly 
feelings, and generous impulses. He was alive most sensi- 
tively, to the principles which control and regulate the 
honor of a gentleman. Pride of character was, perhaps, 
the strongest point in his nature; and I am very sure it was 
also strengthened by education, and parental example. 
He had married a beautiful girl, with whom he had formed 
but a very slight acquaintance. She had been the belle 
of the season ; he was rich, and her best cards had been 
played to secure him. 

It matters not how high and penetrative the mind of 
man is (and woman too), on all the important subjects of 
life, yet when love is the stake, how very often is the inex- 
plicable inconsistency of human nature betrayed. Henry 
Temple was gay — somewhat of a dasher — at least fond of 
amusements and high life, yet he could never be persuaded 
to contract habits deleterious to his health, fortune, or 
character. 

He did not visit the Gap for many months, and when he 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


13 


came, lie was almost a shadow of himself. Sorrow and 
disappointment were stamped upon his countenance. A 
long attack of nervous fever, detained him at the home of 
his youth during a whole winter, and his friends were 
almost despairing of his recovery, when the return of 
spring, and the invigorating air of the mountains, partially 
restored his health and strength. During his illness, it was 
evident to those around him that his disease was more of 
a mental than bodily character. Some grief, deep and 
corrosive, was laying waste the energies of his nature, and 
draining the pure sources of his heart. So firmly had it 
taken root, that he had not power to shake it off, or to re- 
lieve himself of its dominion. He seemed to have forgot- 
ten the essential purposes of life in this secret sorrow — this 
hidden mortification. He never named his wife, or alluded 
to her in any of his conversations. As the spring advanced, 
his frail and attenuated frame gathered strength more 
rapidly, and a feeble smile sometimes was found stealing 
over his stoic countenance. It was almost the middle of 
May, I think, when he received letters which seemed to 
arouse him from his dark dreams. 

“I must,” said he to his sister, “ leave these beautiful 
scenes, and quiet shades, for the bustle of city life ; I must 
meet my fellow man ; it will not do for me to live in the 
world, and shun it like a monk or a brigand. I must 
struggle against fate ; I am resolved to meet it like a man ; 
I have moped about here like an evil shadow long enough; 
I give you, dear sister, my best confidence when I give you 
my child he placed the child upon her knee. “ Keep 
her from the whirlpool of fashion; hide her from pollution,” 


14 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


lie spoke very low, and with a quivering lip, “ and as you 
value my love, never — no never — let her taste ardent spirits. 

“ Oh ! what do you mean, brother V 9 inquired Miss 
Temple. 

“I mean that it is the fiery worm that has stolen into 
the Eden of my heart ; it has planted its poisonous fangs 
so deep, that time cannot tear them from me. It is the 
veriest curse of. life. It saps the foundation of every 
moral virtue, and sears with its baneful breath the sweetest 
joys of life. It burns up every gentle emotion of the soul — 
stirs up the crushed dregs of every evil passion, until its 
victim becomes a mass of degradation. It lays like an in- 
cubus upon the spirit, counting the trembling pulses of the 
brain, with maddening fury eating out the heart with its 
blistering venom. Oh! thou damning draught, earth has 
no ^greater curse, or hell a greater torment.” 

“ Brother! brother!” cried Miss Temple, laying her hand 
on his lips, “ Oh ! be not rash, or vehement, why should 
you?” 

“Why should I not? that is the question.” 

“Dear brother, you have never fallen so low — you are 
free from such vices — do not agitate yourself — remember 
to be temperate in all things.” 

“Ah! well,” continued Henry, rubbing his brow, “I will 
say to you, never let that child see a drunkard, without 
telling her, that he is the most helpless, worthless, and the 
most disgusting object that incumbers the earth. Teach 
her to despise, not to pity him.” 

“I will teach her, Henry, that there is an innate power 
in the soul of man to baffle temptation, a living principle 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


15 


of faith, that gives us support when frail nature is ready to 
yield. Oh! my brother, God never made man and sent him 
into the world so poorly shielded, that his passions and 
appetites can alone control him. There is a power of re- 
sistance in man, superior, in force, to that which draws him 
on to an evil destiny, if he would yield himself to it with 
the same pliancy with which he gives himself up to the 
full dominion of the tempter.” 

“ You mean moral courage?” replied Henry Temple. 

“Hot altogether,” replied Paulina, “but the proper esti- 
mate of the powers and endowments of the soul. It 
never was intended by the wise Creator of the universe, 
that humanity should suffer through the vicissitudes of life, 
and perils of temptation alone. There is a power whose 
universal aid is offered in the darkest hour.” 

“I know it, but it is so hard for man to be led by any 
will but his own.” 

“ Oh ! no, brother, not so very difficult, if — ” 

“Yes, if — but can you suppose, Paulina, that one who 
has given up all, every sacred tie, every hallowed trust, 
and plunged himself into the very depths of an abomi- 
nable evil, can ever be reclaimed?” 

“Surely I do, brother.” 

“It is easy to speak thus, and to think thus, but oh ! the 
trial — the trial. Do you know, sister, that I have tried to 
be a drunkard — I have tried to love it.” 

“Ho, I am sure you could not, dear Harry, but never 
try the experiment again.” 

“Hever, sister, I have taken the pledge. Ho, I will 
never break it, not if I lose all that is dear in life — poor 
little Elinor,” and catching the child, he folded her to his 


16 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


bosom, and bis tears were bidden in tbe silken folds of her 
dark hair. 

Henry Temple went into tbe world, to contend with its 
scoffs, its mortifications, and its fiery ordeals, alone and 
feeble, his frame attenuated, and liis constitution shattered, 
leaving in his inner being the deep and inextricable cancer 
that burned like a smothered volcano, devouring the very 
vitals of his existence. 

Time passed on, and the inhabitants of Wolf- Gap pur- 
sued the even tenor of their way, uninterrupted by sorrow 
or calamity. 

Little Elinor grew in grace and beauty. She was idol- 
ized by her relatives, and petted by all tbe friends of tbe 
family. She was gentle as tbe ring-dove in tbe valley pine, 
and so thoughtful and pensive, that you would have thought 
her under tbe influence of some secret spell — that her feel- 
ings were drawn by magnetic mystery to tbe spirit of her 
father. Her thoughts wore a deeper tinge than le couleur 
du rose. She was kind and unselfish to a fault. This trait 
procured her more friends than her beauty or gentleness. 

In the village-school her superiority was acknowledged 
by all. She ever had the best seat, and the rarest flowers — 
the prettiest birds and the brightest berries from the hill- 
side. They called her the mountain-blossom — the wild rose 
of the hollow. The children loved to gather around her, 
when she sat on the grass, with her black curls hanging 
over her face, making bouquets of daisies and blue-bells, 
and tying up love-knots with the long broom-straw. That 
old, uncouth school -house stood down in a valley where the 
sun shone on its quaint front all winter, and in the summer 
the sycamores and the butternuts threw their wild shadows 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


17 


around it like a curtain, and the fresh breezes from the hill- 
tops came laden with the perfume of the honeysuckle. 
In the spring, the dogwood and crab-apple bloom, mingled 
with the cedar and hemlock, gave life and beauty to the 
rural spot. The house was composed of logs, with long 
windows in front, which were fastened up by hooks, to ad- 
mit the air or light, as the occasion required. Although 
rude and unadorned by the sculptor, yet it had something 
classic in its tout ensemble. But few marvelous incidents 
disturbed the tranquillity of those academic shades, such 
as agitate the “ city full.” The most exciting and stirring 
event that transpired, happened every other day ; yet it was 
always novel and interesting, and never occurred without 
producing an ungovernable commotion. This was the 
rumbling of the mail-coach down the hill. The driver 
would blow his horn as he turned the “ Gap,” on purpose 
to exhilarate the young students, and in a moment every 
head was popped out of the window. The master himself 
could not forbear walking to the door, with the birch in his 
hand, and his spectacles on his head. Very often he was 
rewarded for his complacency by a package of newspapers 
or Congress speeches, which were thrown to him by the 
Jehu of the route. It always required prompt measures on 
the part of the master to restore order and tranquillity, 
after this usual but delightful treat. 

Sometimes a peddler of fancy notions would turn in and 
throw himself on the grass to rest and exhibit to the eager, 
crowd his little museum of new inventions, and his rare 
and very cheap commodities. The master , after looking 
over his lot of merchandise, would generally conclude to 

treat himself to a neatly twisted mass of pig-tail. His 
o 


18 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


unsophisticated disciples wondered at his taste, and even 
questioned his judgment, but his will being sovereign, no 
one dared gainsay it. 

The circuit-preacher would often call, as he wound his 
solitary way over the bleak, dreary road, to hear them 
spell, and to question them on things in general, and on 
the Scriptures in particular. How they loved to hear him ! 

“ Milton Hazlewood, do you know who made you, my 
son ?” — 

“Yes, s-i-r; God.” 

“Who made God, Mr. Smith?” cried little Jimmy 
Grimes. 

“ Jimmy, be quiet — it is not your put-in — you are too 
quick on trigger ; can’t you be easy ? — sit down, sir.” 

The little fellow obeyed the mandate of his tutor, and 
wriggled himself back to his seat, without once moving his 
eyes from the pleasant face of the preacher, so eager was 
he to have the mystery explained. His eyes were full of 
inquiry and thought. How many American heroes took 
their first lessons in just such a school-house, and how 
fondly and truly memory has retained, through all the 
glories and trials of human ambition and worldly greatness, 
the loved scenes of their boyhood, and always the dear 
old school-house, the platform of so many harmless pranks, 
heroic adventures and daring deeds. 

The “Wolf-Gap” school-house had its heroes; for when 
some poor chap, “less lucky than the rest,” vented his 
jealousy, by pulling Elinor’s hair — rubbing out her sum — 
or staining her face with poke-berries, there were a dozen to 
show him fight. If the younger ones could not succeed in 
chastising him, as they imagined he deserved, Theodore 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


19 


Harper, the oldest, and the most studious of the class, 
would unbend his mind from his Virgil, and drub him, 
until he cried enough. 

Ten years had passed since little Elinor had become an 
inmate of her grandfather’s house. During that period, 
her father had paid her several short visits. His health 
was still precarious, and he was still laboring under the 
same mental depression. He had become more stern and 
inflexible, more taciturn and studious ; he exhibited less 
signs of suffering, but you could see that his disorder was 
permanently settled, and beyond restoration. 

He was trying, about this time, to get a divorce from his 
wife. The why and wherefore will appear in due time. 


20 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


CjjajtUt 3. 

On the roadside, about a mile from the “ Gap,” stood a 
small inn, offering humble inducements to the weary trav- 
eler and his jaded animal. The sign, which hung from a 
top-heavy post, presented on each side, crossed keys. The 
design was happy in its signification, but would not have 
purchased fame for its aspiring designer, but it answered 
the purpose for which it was intended — that is not always 
the fate of the best achievements. 

The bar-room, as it was called, was a large apartment, 
devoted to many purposes. It was the general reception 
room for men, women, and children. The repository of 
saddles, baggage, rifles, game-bags, fishing-tackle, reaping- 
hooks, flax-breaks, and loom-reeds, etc. One corner was 
ornamented with files of newspapers, and show-bills of va- 
rious descriptions, which had been brought from the county 
court-house below. Over the chimney-piece was a large 
representation of a circus which was going the rounds, 
“low down” in Petersburg and Richmond — wonderful ex- 
ploits ! amazing agility ! unrivaled velocity ! Between the 
front windows hung a small looking-glass, over a yard of 
flowered paper. A yankee clock, the likeness of Jefferson 
and Pocahontas, ornamented the opposite side of the room. 

Every hotel or domicil for the entertainment of the pub- 
lic, from the St. Nicholas and Astor, of Broadway, to the 
log-cabin inn of the far west, has its peculiarities in form 
of loungers. They become, in course of time, identified 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


21 


appendages to the establishment. They differ in appearance, 
as the houses they frequent. The exquisite lounger on the 
plush sofas of the city hotels, with his fashionable moustache 
and jockey club perfume, is represented in the indolent, 
half-dressed youth, who thrums the cords of a cracked 
violin, in some outlandish country tavern. They are all 
devoted patrons of the establishment, indorse its bills of 
fare, recommend its accommodations, and are always ready 
to participate in the hilarity which chance might throw in 
their way. The proprietor of the Cross-Keys was a man 
of moderate and unimposing pretensions. The appendage 
to his bar-room was Peter Larkins, who was always on 
hand — fond of politics, reading newspapers, and getting up 
items — he attended to everybody’s business but his own ; 
he left that for his wife to regulate the best way she could. 
His farm was always out of order — his fences forever on 
the decline. His crop was invariably put in long after he 
had assisted in planting those of his friends’, and was sel- 
dom matured or gathered in as it should have been. Some- 
times the clairvoyant animals saved him the trouble of 
filling his barn, by pushing over the crazy fences and help- 
ing themselves. His house was once a snug cottage ; and 
would still have been so, if he had performed his part as 
faithfully outside, as his thrifty wife managed the interior. 
His orchard was exposed to the depredations of the vagrant j 
cattle and boys of the neighborhood. Peter Larkins was 
one of the best creatures in the world to help one in a 
pinch, but he was always in a pinch himself. He never had 
time to do this or that, at home — and things about his pre- 
mises insinuated that the master was from home. 

His gate had been swinging on one hinge for more than 


22 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


a year, and if it had been any gate but his, it would undoubt- 
edly have been down ; but Peter worked at it so carefully, 
and so good naturedly in his outgoings and incomings, to 
preserve its standing ; and if any one was with him, he 
always remarked, in a palliative tone, “well. I’ll fix you be- 
fore a coon’s age, if I live so long but it was never 
repaired to my knowledge. The sweep of the well was 
put in wrong, and it always remained so, for Peter never 
had a moment to spare to remedy the evil. He was the 
life of every gathering for miles around. He was strong 
at a logrolling — a whole hand at a corn-shucking and 
house -raising. His jovial demeanor secured him a welcome 
everywhere, and his merry songs and popular witticisms 
were well received in his circle of acquaintances. Peter 
had one fault which engendered a multitude of evils. He 
loved his bottle — yes, better than his wife, children, or 
friends, for he would sit for whole days, sipping his mug, at 
the “ Cross-Keys,” and forget that his wife had no wood, 
and that his sick boy needed medicine, or that his unruly 
beasts, as he called them, had gotten into his fields and 
trampled down his blades, which were growing so thrifty. 

Peter knew his failing, and boasted that he could leave 
off whenever it suited him ; that the little he drank never 
“ faized ,” him, and that his wife loved him just as well 
drunk, as sober, and swore he could refrain whenever there 
was a “ needcessity” for it. 

Many have thought the same, but all alike have, at some 
time or other, been deceived. It is easier to crush an evil 
in the bud, than to grapple with it when it is strong enough 
to master us. The poor heedless fly, that makes so many 
perilous revolutions about the blaze of a candle, is very 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


23 


sure to perish in the flame. “ Touch not, taste not," should 
be the motto of every one who finds a temptation in ardent 
spirits. 

It was a beautiful clear evening in the month of May. 
The sun was just sinking behind the mountain-tops, when 
a small carriage stopped at the door of the Cross-Keys. A 
young man, dressed very handsomely, but bearing about 
him indubitable marks of reckless and dissipated habits, 
alighted, and was followed by one of less imposing appear- 
ance, wearing a white hat and green cravat. He held the 
reins, and called loudly for the hostler. Now to tell the truth, 
there was no such personage at the Cross-Keys. That office 
was generally filled by any one that happened to be present. 
The stranger became impatient (for everybody's business 
is very sure to be nobody's), when Peter Larkins, finding 
no person answered the call, volunteered his services, and 
approaching the stranger, offered to hold the reins until the 
master of ceremonies appeared. 

“You are the landlord !" said the young man; “have 
my horse put up, and give him a plenty of grub. He is 
the finest horse in the < Old Dominion.' " 

“ Ah !" said Peter. 

“ If there is a better I would like to see him, / would, 
wouldn't you, Fairmont ?" 

“ Be blamed if I wouldn't." 

“I ask pardon," says Peter; “here comes the land- 
lord," and he resigned the reins to the negro boy, who 
came whistling after his master. 

The strangers were ushered into the bar-room, and after 
ordering supper and lodgings for the night, declared that 
their throats were dry as powder-horns. The bottles were 


24 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


deposited on the table, and they helped themselves very 
liberally. 

If the reader ever traveled through the mountains of 
Virginia before the beneficial influence of the temperance 
cause penetrated its hills and valleys, he knows better than I 
can tell him, the compliments that passed on that occasion, 
and the simple curiosity displayed by those who had so few 
opportunities of hearing or seeing what was going on in the 
wide world. 

“ Traveling, strangers ?” asked Larkins, rubbing his 
hands, and smiling complacently. 

“ I should think so,” replied the hero of the white 
hat. 

“Well I don’t see that we are at present,” said the 
younger gentleman, with a sinister shrug of his shoulders. 

“ No offense, Misters, I should like to know the price of 
corn below, as may be you are from Richmond or Peters- 
burg.” 

“ And may be not, what then ?” 

“Why still, stranger, you might know the price of corn,” 
persisted Peter. 

“ I might, and I might not.” 

“I tell you what, stranger, it is very dull times here, very 
little traveling done in these parts, and if a straggler hap- 
pens to drap among us, why, he has got to talk, that’s cer- 
tain ; it’s no use trying to shirk out of it, now, there aint, 
and if you be Yankee peddlers, why there’s no use to keep 
close, for you can’t do it, indeed you can’t ; we’ll fan you 
out ; now, can’t you tell us the price of corn ?” 

Peter knew very well that they did not belong to that 
thriving, sober, money-making race. He could see at a 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


25 


glance, that they were wild, reckless outlaws, no matter 
where they originated. 

“ Do you wish to speculate on the articles ?” asked the 
stranger. 

“ I never specelate,” said Peter, closing the only button 
on his coat. If dame Fortune wants to see me, she can 
come, if not, why, she may send her daughter and be 
darned to her.” 

“ Who is that ?” 

“ Why Miss Fortune, to be sure,” and Peter walked to 
the door. 

“ Stop,” cried the oldest of the travelers, familiarly 
touching him on the shoulder ; “ you are a character — a 
devilish clever fellow ; I like your grit. Come, take a 
drink to better acquaintance. My name is Simon Fairmont, 
and yours ” 

“ And mine is Peter Larkins, at your service ; success to 
you, sir, whatever may be your enterprise.” 

“ Why, you are a regular blunderbuss ; come, sit down, 
sir, and let’s have a chat, my fine fellow. Do you call 
this a town ?” 

“ Some call it one thing, and some call it another. It is 
called the Key Settlement — Blunderville, and a dozen more 
names; but you see, stranger, it is a very scarce place, and 
considerably scattered. It could not be called a town only 
in derision. It has no church, no court-house — they be at 
the other end of the county.” 

“ You have a school^house, it is to be hoped.” 

“We did have one over by the blacksmith-shop, but it 
fell through.” 

“Was any one killed ?” 

3 


26 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“No sir ! the schoolmaster, I mean ; the house is there 
still.” 

“ What befell him ?” 

“Why, you see, stranger, he come here well recom- 
mended, but after awhile he began to show his cloven foot.” 

“ Ah ! in what respect ?” 

“ He turned out a regular old swigger — got drunk, 
and beat the young ones black and blue, the scamp ; so we 
turned him off.” 

“ You did right ; schoolmasters have no right to in- 
dulge ; it is preposterous. It is a very responsible situ- 
ation.” 

“ Yes sir ; we sent him looming. His name was God- 
frey ; the boys used to steal his liquor, and when he found 
it out, they laughed in his face, and said they thought 
‘Godfrey’s cordial ’ was good for children.” 

“ That was not slow,” said the stranger, laughing. 

“ A man,” said Peter, drawing himself up, “ ought al- 
ways to know when to stop.” 

“ Ah ! my jolly friend, there’s where you mistake your- 
self. If a man wants to keep clear of the critter, he had 
better not begin. It is easier beginning than stopping. I 
have been ten years trying to reform, and every year I go 
deeper and deeper, and now , sir, I live on it, but I get 
along very happily. Have you no dry goods stores or gro- 
ceries in this benighted place ?” 

“We had one store here,” replied Larkins, “where they 
kept a little of everything ; but they sold out their last 
stock, which was a piece of red flannel, and a lot of lioe- 
handles, and some hoes without handles, and went off to 
try their luck in Indikanna ” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


27 


“ No lawyers?” asked the stranger. 

“ What do we want with such varmints here ? we have 
no court-house ; it is at the county-seat.” 

“ How do you settle your affairs when you go to logger- 
heads ?” 

“ Mighty little wool to gather in these parts, stranger ; 
Squire Temple, to be sure, does now and then have a case. 
As for my part, I never have any difficilties to settle. Jim 
Roane and Sam Johnson settle theirs with their fists.” 

“ That is the way I settle mine,” said the traveler. “ It 
costs less, and is sooner done. Now tell me — but stop, wet 
your whistle first.” The younger man filled the glass and 
handed it to Peter. 

“After you, sir, is manners,” said Larkins, bowing pro- 
foundly ; his bright eye twinkled with delight at his good 
luck, and the cordiality which the gentlemen seemed ready 
to bestow upon him. His vanity was becoming supreme. 
Peter could not see deeper than the surface. He was sim- 
ple and ingenuous himself, and such persons are rarely sus- 
picious. 

His companions had arrived at the desired point, and 
were about to broach the subject of their visit to the Key 
settlement. 

“ This is fine old mountain-dew,” said Fairmont. 

“It is double ractified,” replied Peter, smacking his 
lips.” 

“You spoke just now of Squire Temple ; where does he 
live ?” inquired Fairmont. 

“About a mile up the road; his place is called Wolf- 
Gap.” 

“ A horribly savage name.” 


28 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ In early times, ” continued Peter, “it was famous for 
wild varmints, but it is a nice plantation now ; the old mas- 
ter has lots of niggers, and plenty of money. He goes 
down every year to Petersburg with his crop.” 

“ He has a daughter?” 

“Yes, sir, as fine a lady as there is in the Blue-Ridge 
valley, and very handsome.” 

“ How old ?’ ’ 

“ In the neighborhood of twenty-five.” 

“ And cords of money ?” said the young gentleman, 
smiling sarcastically. “ Does she wish to marry ?” 

“I can’t say, replied Peter, “she has had a power of 
chances, and good ones at that. The women have their 
own notions about matters and things.” 

“ Twenty-five, and not willing to marry ! Here, take 
the bottle and have it filled, landlord ; I must drink her 
health ; she is a most wonderful woman. Is she the only 
child ?” 

“ Ho, sir; he has a son married, and living in Hew York.” 

A sly look passed between the gentlemen, but it was lost 
on Larkins, who, by this time, was getting “unco fou,” 
and had long since passed the Rubicon. 

“Take another glass, Mr. Larkins; help yourself — don’t 
be backward. This is the key that unlocks the treasures 
of the soul — honor, generosity and confidence. When I 
have drank with a man, I call him friend — my brother — 
and feel as if bound by an indissoluble tie. It makes us 
freemasons in many respects. But tell me, my friend, has 
not the Squire a grand-daughter ?” 

“He has, and she has lived with him ever since she was 
a baby.” Here Peter related the circumstances mentioned 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


29 


in a former chapter — how he had surprised the family with 
his Christmas present. 

“WhSre is her mother?” asked Fairmont, turning his 
eyes toward the younger gentleman. 

“I never heard anything about the mother,” replied 
Larkins. The child has been brought up by her aunt, for 
the Squire himself is a widower. 

The stranger looked around the room, and finding they 
were alone, drew his chair closer to Peter. 

“ Friend Larkins — I call you friend , because we have 
touched glasses — and I believe you to be a whole-souled 
fellow — I would like to enlist your services in a little affair — 
a trifling matter of my companion’s here — but before I let 
you into my confidence, I must be assured that you will 
not betray me.” 

“ I never did the like,” cried Peter, pompously. “Do I 
look like a Judas Iscariot ?” His head was entirely mysti- 
fied by the fumes of the strong liquor he had taken, and it 
was with great difficulty he could comprehend his com- 
panion. 

“ Well, Larkins, you must, in the first place, swear to 
keep my secret, or rather the secret of my friend.” 

“ I swear 'pine blank f replied Peter, striking the table, 
“ I hope the devil may roast me alive if ever I tell it. I 
am at your ser-ser-vice by ” 

“ You will observe, in the first place, Mr. Larkins, that 
this is my friend Mr. Ben Darby ; he is on a visit to little 
Miss Temple.” 

“How do tell me,” said Peter, opening his eyes and mouth. 

“We will take another glass, and then I will let you into 
our designs.” 


30 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ No harm to the Squire,” said Peter, as the last pellucid 
idea floated through his foggy brain; “ I can’t stand that, 
sir — no sir.” 

“ None in the world, my man,” said Mr. Ben Darby, 
bending his serpent-like eyes full upon the countenance of 
his new acquaintance ; “ come, take another drink and I 
will tell you what we are in for. Now, sir, we mean no 
evil ; all I want is the Squired little grand-daughter.” 

“ All you want, sir, is Elinor Temple?” 

“ That is the idea ; she does not belong by rights to the 
Squire.” 

“ No she d-d on’ t” — and Peter laughed with his mouth 
wide open. 

“ She is the property of another.” 

“ She is, I be dog ed, if she ishn’t,” said Larkins, 

trying hard to hold himself up. 

“ And we will not leave the place without her ; do you 
understand it all, Mr. Larkins ?” 

“ I stands under it all, Mr. Larkins,” said Peter, laugh- 
ing, and snapping his fingers comically at his new friend. 

“We must have her,” said Darby, firmly. 

“We will have her, by thunder,” cried Larkins, reeling 
to the door ; “ she will go it — hang my hat.” 

Peter Larkins, where now is your boasted self-control, 
that balance of mind which has so long held you above the 
level of the brute creation ? Temptation has at last over- 
come you, has found you accessible even to ruin. The good 
qualities which have so long lingered in your nature in de- 
spite of your habits, are about to succumb at last. You can 
never again say that the little you drink never faizes you — 
that you can refrain when there is a needcessity for it. Let 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


31 


temptation come in what form it may, there is a moral cou- 
rage in man sufficient to resist evil and sustain goodness ; 
God has endowed his creatures with this living principle. 
Some have infringed upon it until it has become feeble, and 
some have, by perverseness, destroyed it without remedy. 
Man has power to control his passions. God made him 
perfect, and fashioned him after his own divinity ; he has 
the capability to reflect and retract, and, like the diamond, 
to resist all meaner frictions. Let no man say that he can 
indulge in the habitual use of ardent spirits without the fear 
of being some time or other overcome : if he even takes it 
drop by drop , it falls deeper and deeper into his nature, 
until it corrodes and blackens the sanctity of his heart, and 
entirely defaces from it the impress of Deity, and man 
becomes degraded and demonized. 


32 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


CtmjiUr £. 

The brand is on thy brow, 

Yet I must shade the spot; 

For who will love thee now, 

If I love thee not.— B arry Cornwall. 

Peter became so intoxicated that he was totally useless 
to his new confederates, as an instrument in the accom- 
plishment of their designs, and at a late hour of the night 
he left his companions and undertook to find his way home. 
Home! what does the drunkard know about that “hal- 
lowed spot?” — that word so full of the heart’s best emo- 
tions ? the cynosure of all that is glorious in man and 
beautiful in woman ! 

Peter sought the way to his house. It was not very far 
from the Cross -Keys. It seemed, however, to our friend to 
be lengthening as he went. He wondered again and again 
why it had become so remote and unapproachable ; and 
then he was completely amazed at finding the orchard 
removed to the front of the building, and for what purpose 
it had been done, or how it had been accomplished, were 
both alike incomprehensible. He would stop, shut his 
eyes, rub them and open them again to see if he was 
deceived. No, it was no deception — no optical illusion. 
The gate, which so long patiently moved to and fro on its 
solitary hinge, had at last become refractory and threatened 
to pitch him over, in defiance of all his tender expostula- 
tions. The old, one-sided well-sweep, working up and 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


33 


down, like the piston-rod of a Mississippi steamer, brought 
him to a stand. Looking around in idiotic amazement, he 
beheld several figures arranged, as he thought, in military 
order, in front of his corn-crib. 

“Now, if it was only muster day,” said he, trying in 
vain to steady himself by the fence — “ if it was, I would 
say that was Captain Graham ; I know him by his fea-^Aer. 
Halloo, Captain Graham!” 

The turkey-gobbler flew down from the fence and uttered 
a guttural salutation. 

“ Drunk, did you say ? Darn your eyes, I ’ll learn you 
better manners — you military heathen you!” 

In stooping to pick up a stone to throw at the offender, 
he fell prostrate. His poor wife, who had been sitting up, 
trying hard to keep down the bitterness of her feelings by 
singing and talking to her baby, dreading she knew not 
what, for her husband did not often stay out so very late, 
unless he was at a frolic : 

“ Oh ! Peter, dear, what is the matter ? Has it come to 
this at last?” 

“ Yes, by G ! I ’m come at last — why don’t you let 

me in?” 

“ Go in ; I don’t prevent you.” 

“Open the door, then — ” 

“It is open; see, this way. Oh! Peter, I would be 
ashamed of myself, indeed I would, to act in this way. 
Oh ! it is too bad.” 

“ What ’s to pay, Susan ?” 

“ To see you so drunk, Peter!” 

“I’m not so drunk, Mrs. Larkins !” 

“ Not drunk ! Oh ! dear me, Peter, how you talk 1” 


34 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“No, Susy, dear, but I swal-lowed a cigar — and am 
devilish shick /” 

His wife contrived, delicate as she was, to balance him 
up and get him into the house — but he was, for the first 
time in his life, boisterous and unruly. It was in vain she 
tried to soothe him with gentle and loving words — he 
became worse and worse. She then bethought her of her 
kind neighbor’s maxim — “that to give a drunken man soft 
words, was casting pearls before swine so she commenced 
scolding. The experiment proved hazardous — Peter 
became outrageous — stormed and raved — broke everything 
that came in his way — seized his wife by the throat and 
nearly choked her to death. The little boy ran out and 
cried with all his force, but it being so late in the night, no 
one came to his assistance. Susan, at last, succeeded in 
pushing him over on to the child’s cradle, and before he 
could recover his feet, she had made her escape, with her 
two children. She knocked at her nearest neighbor’s door. 

“ Come in, Susy ; I know it is you, child,” said Mrs. 
Grimes ; “I heard all the fuss.” 

“Oh! Mrs. Grimes,” said Susan, “you always said it 
would come to this.” 

“Never mind, child, sit up by the fire and warm your- 
self — it is very chilly — you shake like you had an ager-fit .” 

The kind woman put the children in bed, and drawing 
her chair closely to her distressed visitor, endeavored to 
cheer her the best way she could. 

“ Mrs. Grimes,” said Susan, “ all my comfort is gone 
forever ! Peter was always so good and kind, so pleasant 
at home and abroad. Never before, when he has taken 
too much, has he spoken a cross word to me — I always 


Mrs. Ben Darby7 


35 


thought, if ever matters did come to the worst, he would 
always be good-natured and gentle.” 

“ Kind and gentle! how foolish you are, child. Let me 
tell you, liquor changes the head — the heart — and the eyes 
and ears — and it gives the tongue a very different wag — 
don’t you know it does? I pity you from my soul — but 
say, dear, what has lifted him so? — where has he been 
and who has he been with ? Man’s company is his 
making or his undoing.” 

“ Down at the Cross-Keys, and he did not come home 
until just a while ago.” 

“It cannot be helped now, Susy dear, so come lie down 
and try to rest.” 

“ Mrs. Grimes, you are so good — but how can I sleep 
when poor Peter is at home by himself dead drunk?” 

“ Why, he is as happy as a lord mayor.” 

“But the house might take fire !” 

“If it should, it wouldn’t matter much if he went with 
it — good riddance to bad rubbish, say I !” 

“ But, Mrs. Grimes, he is my husband, and the father 
of my children !” 

“ They would be better off without him — and you too, 
child, if he keeps on this way.” 

“ Home has always been the world to me,” said Mrs. 
Larkins, weeping — “it is precious seldom I ever thought 
of going out — my heart is too heavy.” 

“No woman feels like it, that has a drunkard tied to 
her — that is, if she has the feelings of a mother and wife.” 

“What hurts me the most,” said Susan, “is that the 
day should ever come that would find me afraid of my 
husband — the man I left my old father and mother for. 


36 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


When I was first married everybody said I had done so 
well, for everybody loved Peter — Oh ! dear me, I almost 
wish I was dead !” 

“Hush, child, don’t blaspheme — you ought to be glad 
you are alive ; but, Susan, it spoils folks to make too much 
of them. When a young man shows a disposition to make 
himself so very popular, and so very agreeable to every 
one — going to this frolic and that — he is very apt to be led 
astray ; and I have told Larkins so a thousand times ; but 
come, child, lay yourself down and try and sleep.” 

“ Oh ! there ’s no comfort for me, Mrs. Grimes, in this 
wide world — ” 

The tears fell very fast and thick on the pale cheek of the 
innocent and wronged wife. 

“Ho comfort — no! no!” 

It was long before the last heavy sigh of the unhappy 
wife was still in slumber. Oh, sleep ! soother of the stain- 
less mourner — nothing but remorse can ward thee off ; pain 
and grief are sometimes lost in thy oblivion. Sleep brings 
back to our grasp the joys, the pleasures, and the hopes 
lost long ago. We embrace, beneath thy canopy, the loved 
ones of the tomb. Their smiles return like the beams of 
morning — renewed in beauty. We retrace the paths of 
light and roses — drink at the fountain of youth, and forget 
the fetters that chain us to the rock of life. Pain, sorrow, 
and death, are all forgotten. 

Peter, for the first time in his life, had rested all night on 
the kitchen floor, and when daylight appeared, he groped 
his way into his wife’s bed, without removing the fine white 
quilt, or his dirty boots. The fumes of his last night’s de- 
bauchery were just beginning to evaporate, when Susan 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


37 


presented herself at the door. He laid quiet, and pretended 
to be asleep. She busied herself about in tidying up the 
room and getting breakfast. At length, when all was 
ready, she returned to call him up to breakfast. 

“ Is the sun up, Susy dear?” 

“Long ago.” 

“ He must be in a hurry, for I ain’t been long down” 

“ Mrs, Grimes has had prayers long ago.” 

“ You don’t say so ?” 

“ And John has gone to mill.” 

“ It is time for me to resuscitate, I suppose,” said Peter, 
trying to get up. 

“ It will not be much trouble to get ready for breakfast, 
for I see you have your hat and boots on — all you have to 
do is to walk to it.” 

“ All ! yes, I guess it is all — and I am devilish stiff — 
couldn’t you make the table come up this way ? — now, do 
try, Susy” 

“ Susan Larkins !” cried Mrs. Grimes, thrusting her 
head through the window, “ come to your young ones, and 
leave that drunken brute. Let him take care of himself. 
I would let him see if I would notice him after his hateful 
prank — I would be for making as much fuss over him as 
if he was just elected clerk of the court, the mean sneak — 
Susy, I am ashamed of you ” 

While Mrs. Larkins was gone for her children, Peter 
hurried over to the Cross-Keys. He had not been long in 
the bar-room before his new acquaintances made their ap- 
pearance in high spirits. 

“Well, Mr. Larkins,” said Mr. Fairmont, grasping him 
familiarly by the hand, “ I think we will try and see how 


38 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


tlie land lies, to-day. You say it is just a mile to Mr. 
Temple’s ?” 

“Yes, sir, good measure — not to say anything of the 
clover-field that we turn, when we strike the barn.” 

“I don’t mean to strike a thing,” replied Fairmont, 
“ unless it comes in my way.” 

“ The barn will be certain to do that,” replied Peter, 
“ it always serves me so ; — but, say, stranger, what was 
you telling last night, about a child that belonged to the 
gentleman with the whiskers — you really don’t mean to say 
that it is little Elinor Temple that you are after ?” 

“ The same, sir ; but come, let’s take some bitters this 
morning, Mr. Larkins, it will refresh your memory. You 
are in for it, sir — no backing out.” 

“ That child, Mr. Fairmont — excuse me, sir, I would as 
soon promise to sell my wife to a nigger buyer, as to touch 
that child — why, it would not be according to nature to do 
it. Why, sir, she is ” 

“ It matters not what she is,” said Darby, “ she is mine, 
and I intend to have her. I only want you to show us the 
way. I see that Fairmont is getting too drunk to be of 
much service. He is getting into one of his big sprees ” 

“Explain, if you please,” said Larkins, addressing Fair- 
mont. 

“ Sir, you are too drunk to comprehend matters,” said 
Darby, proudly, “even if Fairmont was able to explain, 
which I am sorry to say is not the case. When he sets in, 
there is no knowing when or where he ends ; he goes the 
whole hog.” 

“Mr. Darby — sir,” replied Peter, drawing himself up, 
“ being as you have not drank any, and being as you were 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


39 


born since Solomon, and had the benefit of a college edifica- 
tion, perhaps you could find words to explain some faint 
idee of what's in the wind ; for I’ll eat fire, if it is not all 
lignum vitee to me — now it is.” 

“ We want you to meet us here this evening, and conduct 
us to ’Squire Temple’s. Fairmont will reconnoiter about 
the 4 Gap,’ so that he can see the child when she returns 
from school. In this way there will be no mistake. A 
blunder in this matter would be embarrassing.” 

44 I’ll wash my hands of the whole matter as far as I’m 
concerned,” cried Peter, who was beginning to feel very 
magnanimous. 44 I’d sooner run my head into a hollow 
gum full of bees, than to harm anybody, ’specially a man 
like the 4 ’Squire the truest friend a man ever had, and 
as to stealing that child , why, cut my head off, if I wouldn’t 
as lief commit susansides /” 

44 Mr. Larkins ! Mr. Larkins ! you forget your promise — 
your oath.” 

44 Oh, you needn’t be Mr. Larkinsing me, for when I put 
my foot down, it’s thar — it is,” and Peter looked Mount 
Atlas at him. 

44 1 promise you, harm shall come to no one — we only 
want the child.” 

44 Only the child!” repeated he, 44 they’d rather lose 
everything else.” 

44 And you refuse to help us ?” 

44 1 do.” 

44 You spoke very differently last night,” chimed in Fair- 
mont, who was again so drunk he could scarcely see — 

44 You are a d pretty bird ; come, take a 

my fellow, and y-your head will be d-d 



40 Mrs. Ben Darby. 

will. This is the best liquor in the world — n— none of your 
d-d poke-juice.” 

Peter took a long, deep draught — wiped his mouth on 
his coat-sleeve, and stood looking quizzically at the bestial 
countenance of his companion. Both were drunk, and 
neither had the full exercise of his reason ; yet there was a 
strong contrast. Poor Peter, with all his ignorance, all his 
child-like simplicity, still retained in his nature, principles 
of honor, and virtue had not been entirely destroyed — there 
were roots enough left to germinate. The milk of human 
kindness still flowed through his veins. His companion had 
battled longer with the arch-fiend ; every manly quality had 
long since been shattered. He had commenced in very 
early youth his reckless course, and lost, by degrees, all the 
precious gifts of the soul. The fiery fluid had seared every 
bud of promise, and not one solitary principle of rationality 
came to perfection. The poison had penetrated every cell 
of the heart — mixed itself with every growing fiber, and 
every impetus of feeling, until the whole system felt its dele- 
terious influence. 

Young Darby was still another variety of the inebriate. 
His surface was fair. You would not dare to place him 
among drunkards if you consulted his outward appearance. 
You would certainly be disposed to consider him as a man , 
if not a very prepossessing one. I compare him to the Solway 
moss — the exterior is smooth, quiet, and green — fresh, 
sometimes bright, but all beneath is a troubled mass of 
putrid fibers of heath, which shakes at every pressure, and 
often pours forth its turbid fluid to the destruction of all 
surrounding objects. 

Mr. fcarby could drink more than either of his com- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


41 


panions, yet he was never called an inebriate. He was always 
capable of attending to his own affairs, and also the con- 
cerns of others. He was hypocritical and insidious — very 
handsome, and decidedly a man of the world. 

Peter Larkins laid drunk about the benches of the village 
tavern all day — too drunk to be sensible of the position he 
occupied. Late in the evening, his mind seemed to receive 
a sudden impulse. He left the house precipitately, and was 
seen making his way toward “Wolf-Gap.” 

4 


42 


Mbs. Ben Darbt. 


Cl) apt er 5. 

“The wanderer’s eye could barely view 
The summer heaven’s delicious blue, 

So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream.” 

It was near the middle of the month of May. The little 
pale pink and blue blossoms were just beginning to peep out 
from under the rubbish of winter. All along the sunny 
side of the precipitous rocks, the green vines were creeping 
out from the crevices, and twining with the dogwood and 
laurel. The cedars and hemlocks were casting off the hues 
of the last season and putting on livelier attire. The wild 
bee was in the butternut blossom, and the gay birds were 
singing merrily in the boughs of the wide-spread chestnut- 
tree, as if the cares and privations of winter were all for- 
gotten. Who does not love a clear sky and a bright spring- 
day ? Who does not love to wander abroad among God’s 
works, and contemplate his power in the formation of the 
simplest flower or humblest plant ? Who has not paused 
to examine its colors, blending so mysteriously together — the 
fashion of its leaves, interposing so harmoniously, and the 
upturned cup that catches the dew-drop which sustains it ? 
Who has not thought, as he looked into the deep, blue 
bosom of the lowly violet, “he who formed thee is all- 
powerful ; though thou art but a speck, none but the Om- 
nipresent could have called thee forth ! Thou alone whis- 
perest to us that there is a God, and that God is immac- 
ulate and adorable.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


43 


I will tell you, reader, who never stops to view the glo- 
rious outpouring of nature’s joy — who never meditates in 
solitude on the arcana of Nature, or on the wise adminis- 
tration of the great Buler of the world — breaking forth 
in ejaculations of wonder, love, and praise to Him who 
has formed him in his image. Come with me, reader, and 
I will show you one who never dreams of such things, and 
if he does, it is in the fleeting memories of his youth, — one 
who never discriminates between a blossom and a worm, — 
one who never looks from “ nature up to nature’s God,” 
but moves along through the world with eyes cast down — he 
never gazes with delight upon the full, bright moon, or hails 
Aurora as she rides out from the golden portals of the east, 
spreading light and glory from hemisphere to hemisphere. 

Here he lies by the side of a still little brook, that winds 
its way through the meadow. He rests upon a soft velvet 
bank. His head presses a mossy pillow. The sunbeams 
are dancing on the shelving rock above him. The wild 
blossoms are wooing the amorous breeze. The mountain- 
rose opens its bosom to the honey-bee. Beauty is all 
around — fresh, unspotted beauty. The robins are sporting 
over his head. The squirrels are peeping out from the 
hollow ash. All is joy about him, but here he lies like a 
worried dog. 

This, reader, is the habitual drunkard; he is scarcely 
ever sober. He lies here, with his leaden eyes, dreamingly 
peering forth from their fiery orbits. The rheum from their 
corners stands still on his full, black lashes like cold cream, 
and the saliva running in small rivulets from his half-opened 
mouth. His countenance has that half-brute, half-human 
composure of features which gives the face an idiotic ex- 


44 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


pression — the undisputed endowment of intoxication. He 
has not chosen this little ravine because he loves the sylvan 
shades; no, he lies there, in the first place, because when 
he fell down he could not get up again just then ; and in 
the second place, he is waiting like a wolf that is watching 
for a lamb. 

He likes his soft resting-place much better than he some- 
times does his city stopping-places, where there are so many 
rude persons passing. It may be sweeter than the kennel, 
but he does not know the difference. 

This personage is Mr. Fairmont; he has been in the 
neighborhood of the Gap for two or three days. He has 
undertaken a daring outrage, but he is too drunk to carry 
it into execution. He has been trying to sober down long 
enough to accomplish his ends, but he can't, for his life, re- 
frain or curb his appetite for the fatal act. 

While he is thus luxuriously reclining on his mother 
earth, the wild laughter of the school children came up 
from the creek bottom, mingling with the noisy fluttering 
of the geese, which the heedless urchins had frightened 
from the water, in their merriment and glee. Oh ! such a 
rush of living, glowing joy. The clear, sweet tones of 
childhood, laughing, screaming, whistling, singing, and the 
winged creatures making chorus in the highest key — even 
the dogs could not resist the burst of animal spirits, but — 

“For joy bae bark it wi’ them.” 

The children all turned off from the woods, into the 
most thickly settled part of the valley ; but two came 
down the pathway leading to the Gap. One was a fine- 
looking boy, about fifteen* or sixteen, very manly and 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


45 


heroic-looking, though clad in homespun, and wearing a 
hat of braided rye-straw. His clear gray eyes, his broad, 
full brow, and the finely formed lips were the index of his 
character. Firm, frank, courageous, generous even to a 
fault. He lived on Mr. Temple’s plantation, and his duty 
and his pleasure never chimed so pleasantly together, as 
when he was escorting Elinor to and from school. She 
was running along by his side, her little calico bonnet 
dangling in one hand, and her basket, in the other. Some- 
times she would set her things down, to pluck the little 
flowers that peeped at her from the hill-side, or to chase a 
rabbit, that had started so close from her feet, that it 
seemed like magic. They had almost run upon Mr. Fair- 
mont before they saw him. Surprised and astonished, 
they stopped short, and the girl caught the hand of the 
lad, looked slyly up into his face, to see if all was right 
there — full of confidence in her protector (as woman should 
be always), she calmly awaited the result. 

“ Dang my b-buttons, here you are at last.” 

“ What are you doing here ?” cried the boy, giving him 
a hunch in the short ribs with his foot, “ get up, it is 
almost night — the pigeons are going to roost.” 

“ Time to be going, hey ? well, you needn’t be telling 
me so ; d-don’t I know it — d-don’t I feel it is time. I say, 
s-stop, don’t leave a body.” 

“Oh ! we must, the geese are going home.” 

“ Let them go, and be d-darned. This is a devTish 
cool place here — you see I’m cooling off, / am l” 

“ I hope you will,” said the boy. 

“ How, see if I don’t. Say, is that Squire Temple’s 
grand-daughter ?” . 


46 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“What is it to you, who she is,” said Theodore — poor 
Elinor clung to her protector, and began to tremble in 
every limb; “I’ll tell you the next time I see you.” 

“Stop now, d-don’t run, wait for company down that 
d-deep hollow.” 

“ I never wait for any but good company — come Elinor, 
you see we must walk fast — you can’t walk, sir, one of your 
legs is shorter than the other — see now, you can’t move it. 
Oh ! yes, I see how — up again, there, that’s a man.” 

“Do come, Theodore,” said Elinor, pulling his arm. 

“ There, he is up once more,” cried the boy, “ there, 
he is down again — no, not quite — easy, easy.” 

“What is the matter? What is he doing?” asked 
Elinor. 

“He is trying his equilibrium, as our master used to 
say.” 

“ See, Theodore, he is almost up with us ; are you not 
afraid of him ?” 

“ Afraid of a drunkard ?” 

“Why not?” 

“ Poor, pitiful wretch, see how well he is dressed, too, 
a nice watch-chain with a big seal to it, just like Mr. Jef- 
ferson used to wear — it is as big as my thumb.” 

“ I wonder who he is,” said Elinor. 

“Say, stranger,” cried Theodore, “what’s your name?” 

“ None of your business.” 

“ That’s a queer name, I don’t know any one in these 
parts so called — where do you live?” 

“ In h 11 !” 

“ That’s just what I thought, so good-bye — we don’t go 
that way.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


47 


“ Oh ! Theodore, he is coming on — see how he 
runs !” 

“ Hold your tongue, you mountain loon,” said the stran- 
ger, staggering close up to the children, “ do you want 
your lights knocked out ?” 

“ If I did, you are not the man to do it — you old rum- 
jug, you.” 

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before he 
was jostled from the path by the intruder, who darted to 
Elinor, crying; “ I want you — you are the one.” The boy 
caught her in his arms, and dashed down the lane as fast 
as he could go. 

When they lost sight of him, they sat down to breathe. 

“ Elinor, you never saw a drunkard before ?” 

“Oh yes! I’ve seen Peter Larkins drunk.” 

“ Yes, but he is always good-natured.” 

“ Theodore, what makes people get drunk ?” 

“ I suppose they love to — I don’t know.” 

“Do they feel happy when they are stumbling about 
so?” 

“Well I can’t say Elinor — I don’t know — but if you 
wish it, I will get drunk and tell you how it operates.” 

“ Oh, no ! Theodore, please don’t — Oh ! I could not 
look at you. I think if anybody could see how they look, 
and how they act, they would never get drunk.” 

“Yes, but they always think they are carrying it on 
secretly ; they never think, when drunk, that other people 
know it.” 

“ Poor fellow, only see how he holds to the fence.” 

“ Don’t pity him, Elinor, he does not deserve it.” 

“ Oh, yes, he does.” 


48 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Why ? I should like to know.” 

“ Because he has to die.” 

“ Well, we all have to die.” 

“ Yes, but we keep our reason, and can think and pray.” 

“ Well ! a man, that is if he is a man , can keep from 
drinking ; that's my doctrine.” 

“ Don’t dream, to night, that he is running off to the 
Hunter’s Cave with you, Elinor !” 

“ If I do, I will also dream that you are there, Theo- 
dore, to rescue me.” 

They parted at the gate; Elinor related the adventure of 
the evening, to her friends at supper. They laughed at 
her for being alarmed. It was thought of no more, until 
recalled to mind with many a bitter and agonizing re- 
flection. 


Mrs. Ben Darbt. 


49 


Cj) after 6. 

“ It is the moon, I ken her horn, 

That’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie, 

She shines sae bright to wyle ns hame, 

But by my troth, she’ll wait a wee.” 

The evening had closed in very pleasantly, and after an 
early supper, Miss Temple and her little niece walked down 
to the quarter where one of the old family servants was 
confined with the rheumatism. 

There is an inexplicable tie between the children of the 
family and the slaves. It is felt and cherished with ardor 
on both sides. Elinor loved to gaze upon the ebony face of 
Sylvia, and would throw her arms around her neck, and 
lay her soft cheek upon her bosom. 

“ Come, Elinor,” said Miss Temple, “it is getting 
dark.” 

“Yes, and if that horrible looking man should be hid in 
the orchard !” 

“We should hardly be afraid of a drunken man, my 
dear ; you and I would show him how the Amherst girls 
could run.” 

“ Good night, * mammy’ Sylvia.” 

“ God bless you, my darling.” 

Miss Temple hurried on very rapidly. The shadows lay 
thick among the apple trees. There was just enough light 
from the young moon to make objects visible to the eye, 
but not enough to identify them. 

“ Hurry, love, we have staid too late.” Elinor grasped 
6 


50 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


lier aunt’s hand and chatted merrily, as she looked ahead 
at the bright light in the parlor window ; all at once she 
stopped short in her path. 

“ What’s the matter, dear ?” 

“ I do believe there he is now,” whispered the child 

“ Who, love ?” 

“ Why, the man that frightened us ; look, he stands right 
there by the beehive — don’t you see him ?” 

“ Don’t be foolish, dear,” said Miss Temple, moving on 
as fast as she could, “ what would he want with us?” 

“ May be he is a negro dealer, and wants to steal some- 
body.” 

“ Oh you silly child !” 

“Well, he is ugly enough to do it.” 

“ The devil he is !” cried a man springing from behind a 
tree, and seizing the child around the waist, he bore her 
away. It was but the work of a moment, and before Miss 
Temple could move or scream, the dear little one was heard 
faintly crying as at a distance. Then the agonizing screams 
of Miss Temple were heard from one end of the plantation 
to the other. The servants rushed from every cabin door — 
even old Sylvia, who had not been able to get about for 
months. The report of a pistol added to the consternation, 
and when Miss Temple rushed into the house, she beheld a 
heart-rending scene. Near the parlor lay a fine young ne- 
gro, weltering in blood, and her father, with his mouth 
gagged, sat in his arm-chair, his hands tied behind him 
with a strong cord. So soon as Mr. Temple was relieved 
from his dreadful situation, his servants and near neighbors 
were dispatched in every direction — some in pursuit ol the 
kidnappers, and others for the county officers. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


51 


In giving the premises a thorough searching, Peter 
Larkins was found concealed in the entry, and a pistol lying 
not very far from him. The young man was very badly 
wounded, and the doctor thought it was very doubtful 
whether he would recover or not. Peter Larkins had been 
seen gossiping and drinking with the strangers at the inn, 
and had, by not revealing what their designs were, laid 
himself open to suspicion. Some were brought in for wit- 
nesses, who had even heard parts of the conversation 
which had taken place between him and his new acquaint- 
ances. It was proved, too, that he had been drunk for 
three days, and that his conduct had been outrageous at 
home. His wife was compelled to seek protection from the 
neighbors. Mrs. Grimes could testify to this, which she 
did in the following manner : “Well ’Squire, I think it 
was Tuesday night — yes, I know it was, for John Grimes 
always goes down to town on Tuesdays. Well, I had been 
pretty busy all day, and sot up quite late. I had just kiv- 
ered up the fire, and was going to bed, when I thought of 
some candles that I had sot out in the moulds to cool. So 
I went out to get them, when I heard a terrible furs over at 
Larkins’; so I goes in and wakes up Grimes. 4 John,’ says 
I, ‘ get up, I believe in my heart that Peter Larkins has 
come home drunk, and is acting badly; I hear his wife cry- 
ing.’ * What do you want me to do ?’ ‘ Why, go and quiet 
him.’ Says he, ‘It is none of my business ; a man has a 
right to get drunk if he wants to.’ ‘And more the pity,’ 
says I ; ‘ it’s a pity there’s not a law for it, if a man can’t 
act the man some one ought to make him.’ While we 
was arguing the point, I heard some one pulling the latch 
of the door ; so I went to open it, and who should it be 


/ 


52 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


but poor Susy, half-dressed, with her baby wrapped up in 
her shawl, and poor little Dick grumbling and crying behind 
her. Poor critter , it was enough to melt the heart of a 
stone jist, to see her — and then to think of her pitying him — 
but that's jist the way with women, they are such fools 
about their drunken brutes of husbands. Now I tell you, 
it would not do for John Grimes to come home in such a 
condition that he did not know which end was up ! I tell 
you he would rue it but once, and that would be all his 
life." 

Poor Peter, what^pould he say ? He protested his inno- 
cence — none but the 'Squire believed him. 

“But you were with those men, Peter?" asked the 'Squire. 

“I was, 'Squire, and more’s the pity." 

“ And you knew their designs:?" 

“I did, 'Squire." 

“ Then why did you not inform, me ; have I not always 
been your friend, and what harm' has my poor little dar- 
ling ever done you ?" 

“ Oh ! don't, sir, if you please, talk about her. I can't 
stand it, indeed I can't," and the tears streamed down his 
face. 

“ If you knew these men, and knew their designs against 
the child, why did you not — I ask again, why did you not 
warn me ?" 

“Why, 'Squire, just to tell the truth before God and man, 
I did know it all, but I was so drunk that I did not know I 
knew it, and I come up on purpose to defeat them." 

“Well, Peter," says Mrs. Grimes, “I hope you have 
found out at last that the little you drink does faize you ; 
now don’t brag any more." 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


53 


“ That’s enough, Mrs. Grimes.” 

“ I want you to have enough.” 

Peter would have had time to get sober and to reflect on 
his errors before the next session of court, if he had not 
contrived to make his escape. 

Old Mrs. Grimes took good care of his wife and children, 
and no news was heard from him for many a long day. 
Susan, so loving, so innocent, and so trustworthy, wept 
alone and in silence over her misfortunes. It mattered not 
where Peter was, her affections, and her hopes of happiness 
were with him. 

Is it not strange that the good and wise love so unfalter- 
ingly the erring and the depraved ? — such is true love, and 
such is woman’s love. 

It is useless to linger at Wolf- Gap in confusion and per- 
turbation, to listen to the voice of grief and sorrow, every 
moment awaiting the terminus to suspense and conjecture. 
From fresh mountain scenes and dewy paths — from simple 
country life and unsophisticated hearts, gentle reader, we 
will visit the recherche apartments of the heartless and fash- 
ionable beauty. 


54 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


C \) e y 1 t x 7. 

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, 

Is the immediate jewel of their souls.— O tkello. 

“ Close the door softly, Hannah/ * said a lady who was 
reclining on a sofa, in all the luxurious indolence of a 
fashionable woman ; “ I have a violent headache, this morn- 
ing. I am very feeble — I wish I knew what produces this 
abominable feeling.” 

“Perhaps it was going to the theater last night?” said 
Hannah. 

“ Then I should have it frequently.” 

“ But it was very chilly, last evening; I trembled like an 
aspen leaf all the time I was at the Tabernacle.” 

“What was you doing there, child ?” 

“ I was listening to a temperance lecture.” 

“A what?” 

“A temperance lecture, ma’am.” 

“ This world is getting very wise ; who was your orator, 
Hannah ?” 

“ I didn’t hear his name, but he knows how to talk, and 
has a powerful voice.” 

“You foolish thing, to waste your time in listening to 
such nonsense. How could it benefit you?” 

“ Oh ! ma’am, every one ought to be interested and 
benefited by hearing the truth.” 

“ Take my word for it, child, there was not one word of 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


55 


truth in the whole discourse. Come, do up my hair in the 
most becoming manner. Braid it behind in three braids, 
and curl it in front. Let ’s see — yes, in five curls on 
each side. I have a very uncomfortable headache, this 
morning !” 

A sinister smile curled the lips of the attendant, as she 
untied the full, dark tresses of her mistress, and laid them, 
one by one, on each shoulder. 

“So your man of sober habits made a great impres- 
sion ?” 

“ I did not say so, ma’am ; I said everybody ought to 
have been benefited.” 

“Depend upon it, Hannah, it was all humbug.” 

“But I know better, asking your pardon, ma’am, for 
gainsaying your word,” and she gave the dark mass of hair 
a prodigious twitch. 

“ How do you know? How could you know? There ! 
I declare, you will leave me as bald as an eagle ; you are 
very heedless.” 

“ How do I know?” cried the girl, the blood rushing to 
her face, and her lips quivering with emotion; “if I could 
not feel it and know it, who could ? I should like to know — 
who could?” 

“Why, dear bless me, Hannah, how violent you are!” 

“Yes, ma’am, and you would be violent too, if you were 
in my place. Oh ! ma’am, if you could follow me to my 
dreary, loathsome, desolate-looking home, of Saturday 
nights, and witness what I do, you would not wonder if I 
was violent. If you would take a look and see m'y broth- 
ers and sisters, benumbed with cold, their naked bosoms 
exposed to the winter wind and to the summer sun, with 


56 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


feet blistered by frost — to see tlieir beautiful hair all matted 
with filth and vermin — their faces begrimed with phlegm 
and dirt, and their poor, little, meager features distorted by 
hunger and pain. My poor, deluded mother, singing her 
hellish songs, like a maniac, lying on an old mildewed bed 
with her wailing skeleton of a baby hugged up to her 
withered, dried-up breast — the little dying angel tugging to 
extract a drop to cool its parched tongue — one drop of that 
nourishment which the brute mother never refuses its 
young. I should like to know if that is not entering into 
the merits of the case?” 

“ Your father, Hannah, what is he about all this time?” 

“ What is he about?” replied Hannah, giving her mis- 
tress another nervous grip; “ I ’ll tell you what he is 
about — stumbling home with a loaf of bread Amder one arm 
and a black jug in the other hand — his eyes bunged up 
with blood and dust; his face disfigured with coal black ; 
his clothes covered with the nauseous mixture of the gutter- 
filth — I should not know him if it were not for that eternal 
jug, that accursed jug. Oh ! ma'am, why should I not 
know? But this is not all !” 

“It is enough in all conscience, child: mercy! mercy! 
I declare, you are getting furious!” 

“You would be furious too, ma'am, if you were in my 
place, but you don't know, indeed you don't — how could 
you ? — sitting here on the fashionable side of Broadway, in 
your beautiful room, with curtains of gold and damask — 
with your piano and guitar — your nice toilet — your books 
and engravings — treading on a velvet carpet — lying on a 
soft, warm sofa, with a bright fire that sends comfort and 
joy to every part of the room — but above all, your nice 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


57 


lunch, coming up on a silver tray, with ice-water and 
champagne. Then you dress and wrap up in your furs 
and go abroad to see and be seen. Ah ! ma’am, it is very 
little you know of misery.” 

“Easy, Hannah, easy, for heaven’s sake, be careful!” 

“ I tell you, ma’am, it is bad enough to have a drunken 
father — a beast of a father — but it is nothing in comparison 
with a drunken mother!” 

The lady’s face flushed crimson, and she moved ner- 
vously in her seat. 

“ Only to think,” continued the girl, as she twisted the 
long dark curls around her finger; “ that I have a thousand 
times wished that I had never been born, or that my mother 
had strangled me when I was an infant!” 

“ Oh ! you wicked creature !” cried Mrs. Temple, trying 
to laugh. 

“No, ma’am, it is not wicked — it would have been 
kinder in her, and she would have only murdered me at 
once, instead of by piecemeal. Who can love a mother 
who prefers the bottle to her children — her honor — all that 
is sacred to womanhood?” 

“ There, child, that will do. Turn the glass round — my 
hair curls beautifully to-day — it always does when the air 
is humid. Stop, you must not give another pull — I can’t 
stand it. Did your mother always drink?” 

“Always drink?” replied the girl; “no, ma’am — I can 
remember when my mother was a gentle, lady-like woman, 
as much so as yourself, ma’am, only she was poor, always 
poor, ma’am.” 

“ What tempted her to become so fond of her cups ?” 
asked Mrs. Temple. 


58 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Who tempts everybody, ma’am .? Who tempted Eve ? 
The same one, the devil, ma’am.” 

“ How was she led to it?” asked the lady, as if irresis- 
tibly forced to hear truths which she had seldom heard, 
and which she hardly dared to hear. 

“Why you see, ma’am, it was a very sickly season — my 
father took the cholera, and was very near dying ; however, 
he recovered, but very slowly, and was very much re- 
duced. The doctor advised him to take a little brandy 
every day before his meals, to strengthen his system. He 
commenced by taking a little with peppermint — sometimes 
with ginger, then toddy, with sugar and nutmeg, before 
dinner. He then went on from one thing to another, until 
he became a perfect sot ; that’s the degrees of most drunk- 
ards. The same way with my poor mother — she begged, 
she entreated my poor father to refrain, to pause before it 
got too late, but he only drank the oftener. It was im- 
possible to make him reasonable. After a while he got to 
staying out at nights, and became quite worthless, so that 
my poor mother’s heart was entirely broken ; and instead 
of seeking comfort in her Bible, and her God, and her 
ever-blessed Redeemer, she went to the old black bottle. 
You see, madam, when her eyes were swollen, and she 
looked hurried and flurried, like you do sometimes, I 
thought it was grief for my father’s doings, but not a bit 
of it ! she had lost all consciousness of right and wrong — 
she had sold her soul, and for what ?” 

The lady looked very earnestly in the girl’s face, who 
w r as standing directly in front of her, with arms a-kimbo, 
and the tears falling slowly from her eyes. 

“ Yes, yes,” continued Hannah, “ she became a rum- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


59 


drinker ; she first took violent headaches, especially in the 
morning, just such as you have ma’am, only ” 

“ Only what !” cried the lady, trembling in every limb. 

“ It is champagne gives it to you, as hers was caused 
by diluted, sour rum.” 

The lady’s face quivered with suppressed emotion ; turn- 
ing the things carelessly over on the dressing-table, she 
tried to say carelessly, “ Why champagne never disagrees 
with one.” 

“ Yes ma’am, the gentleman that lectured last night 
said, that the upper-crust, who drank champagne, would 
never give it up — that it would make folks boozy ; that 
rum, whisky, ale, and beer, got all the credit of turning 
people topsy-turvy.” 

“ Foreigners must, and will drink,” said Mrs. Temple. 
“ Your mother, child, I suppose, was from the Emerald 
Isle.” 

“No ma’am,” said Hannah, drawing herself up with 
supreme dignity, “my mother is a native American — she 
was born in a land of peace and plenty — more is the 
shame to her.” 

“Well, Hannah, I have had temperance enough for one 
day, I will finish dressing, but first bring me a pitcher of 
ice water.” 

While Hannah was procuring the ice water, Mrs. Temple 
stepped into her dressing closet, and drawing forth a very 
beautiful flask of precious china, with a silver stopper, 
poured out a wine-glass of clear amber liquor and drank 
it down with great precipitation, and quickly returned to 
the dressing-table, ready to receive the ice water, when 
Hannah returned to the room. 


60 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ I expect a charming visitor, this evening,” said Mrs. 
Temple, as Hannah placed the water on the table, “my 
own sweet little daughter, whom I have not seen for nearly 
eight years.” 

“0 ! ma’am, you will be very happy I am sure.” 

“ Hot so very — it takes a great deal to make some 
people happy. I suppose I am one of that class.” 

“ Oh ! ma’am, you ought to be happy.” 

“ Ought to be ? How do you know what I ought to 
be ?” and her voice thickening almost to a lisp, and the 
saliva oozing from the corners of her mouth ; “I forget my- 
self sometimes, when talking to you, and if it was not 
vulgar to use proverbs, I would tell you one, but I can’t 

just get hold of it — ‘ Too much familiarity ’ Oh ! hang 

it—” 

“ I beg pardon, ma’am,” said Hannah, as the lady was 
vainly endeavoring to fasten her bracelet, “but everybody 
can be happy in some way or other ; God never made man 
or woman, without giving them a chance to be happy, and 
I know he has showered blessings upon you as thick as May- 
blossoms. You have no right to be anything but happy.” 

“You have a right, I suppose, to be insolent!” cried 
Mrs. Temple, turning fiercely toward the girl, who stood 
holding her bracelet and collar. 

“ I have a right to speak the truth,” said Hannah, in a 
firm, democratic way. 

“I’ll let you know I am — know — I’ll let you skse I can 
do as I pleashe” said the lady, almost choking with pas- 
sion, “ do you hear me, shay , do you hear me?” 

“ I should be as deaf as a door-nail if I didn’t,” said 
Hannah. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


61 


“ I shay, I have a right to do just as I pleashe; I dare 
you to shay otherwise — will you not speak — s-shay?” 

“ I will not say another word ma’am — I am sorry I said 
so much. You have spoiled me by talking so much to 
me. I do not wish to forget my place.” 

“ You forgot your place, when you shaid I got d- 
drunk.” 

“ Indeed, I did not say so.” 

“ What did y-you shay?” 

“ I said the champagne disagreed with you.” 

“ But you meant as much.” 

“Dear me, ma’am, how could it enter my heart, that a 
rich lady like you — one of the upper-crust too — that has 
every comfort in life, should fall so low?” 

“You did s-shay it — you did mean it !” interrupted the 
lady, in a hurried and passionate tone, “ you know you 
did — you low creature you.” 

“ I did not ma’am, say so,” said Hannah, deliberately 
laying down the collar and bracelet, which she had been 
holding so long, but saw so little prospect of disposing of 
them in their usual way. “ ISTo ma’am, I did not say you 
were 4 you-know-liow,’ but I say so now — and it’s a crying 
sin — and I tell you so if I have to die for it. You are 
sinning against light and knowledge — for a drunkard cannot 
enter the Kingdom of Heaven. How, ma’am, when you 
get sober , and need my assistance, ma’am, you can just 
ring the bell, ma’am.” Hannah closed the door behind 
her with a tremendous jerk. 


62 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Chapter B. 

Intemperance 

In nature is a tyranny ; it hath been 
The untimely emptying of the happy throne, 

And fall of many kings— Shakspe are. 

Mrs. Temple moved toward the door as Hannah closed 
it sans certmonie , but fell back on the sofa, overcome by a 
variety of emotions — topsy-turvy commotion of the brain, 
and an unequivocal unwillingness of her feet to perform 
their usual functions. What a tableau ! A superb subject 
for a Vandyke or a Claude Lorraine. The chamber, with 
its lofty ceilings ; its rich curtains and draperies ; its mirrors 
and chandeliers ; in fine, all those exquisite appliances of 
ease and comfort, so consonant to the taste and use of a 
fashionable lady. 

Mrs. Temple was, unconscious of all around her, ex- 
tended upon the sofa, unable to change her position. Her 
form was magnificent, tall and graceful ; time had, with , 
dissipation, destroyed the timidity and modesty of youth — 
these gave place to a Venus-like stateliness and power. Her 
modishly arranged head had fallen over the cushions, and 
her dark hair, in long curls, drooped from her high brow, and 
rested on her shoulders. The contour of her face presented 
a perfect development of every intellectual beauty ; the 
exquisitely arched brows, and the long silken lashes added 
the matchless symmetry to her features, so fully appreciated 
by the eye of an artist ; but the contraction of the muscles 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


63 


and the deep crimson of the cheek, were painful to the 
sight. The half-opened mouth, with lips relaxed, smiling 
in contortion and disgust, were almost hideous. An itiner- 
ant spasm, twitching first one side of her face, and then the 
other, eliciting a corresponding sympathy from the corners 
of her left eye, gave her the agonized look of a fallen angel, 
and seemed to say, 

“ And I forgot my home, my birth, 

Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow ; 

And reveled in gross joys of earth 

’Till I became what I am now 1” ^ 

She continued in a state between sleep and lethargy. 
Sometimes she would throw her arms up, clasp her hands 
wildly, or strike her foot against the ottoman, which was 
within reach. Her head, so uneasily placed, bobbed up 
and down, like a cork on water. Love, friendship, and 
honor, were all forgotten. The hope of heaven and Chris- 
tian faith were expelled from her cankerous heart. No joy, 
no pleasure, no consolation, but the soul-destroying — the 
deadening influence of the inebriating draught found en- 
trance there. She was lost in the wild ecstasies of delirium, 
proving the inexpressible and undisputed delights of a 
drunkard’s paradise. 

While Mrs. Temple is recovering from her extraordinary 
excitement, I will give you an outline of her history down 
to the present time. Mrs. Johnson had married in very 
early life, an aged but aristocratic merchant, who was the 
father of a very amiable and interesting child. Mr. John- 
son died, leaving his young wife the guardian of his two 
children. The step-daughter was reared at home by her 


64 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


mother's relations, and Mrs. Temple, the youngest child, 
was sent to a fashionable boarding-school. 

Her education was limited. The frivolous accomplish- 
ments of the day were the only points in which she ex- 
celled. Unfortunately for her, and those with whom her 
lot fell in after days, she was neglected in all the most im- 
portant points of female tuition. The essential duties of 
religion and moral rectitude, were to her memory but the 
myths of the nursery. 

She was taught to love and admire virtue as some bright 
and beautiful vision, mixed up with the mysteries of a future 
state, but that the whole purpose of woman's being was to 
secure the praises and flatteries of the world — to attain the 
goal of ambition by a flourishing debut into the fashionable 
circles of society, and by tact and judicious management, 
obtain the hand of some distinguished character — a man 
whose position in life was unquestionably above mediocrity, 
and whose name was a passport to the aristocratic sphere, 
so ardently desired as the acme of all earthly aspirations. 

Miss J ohnson, unlike most young ladies, was not in the 
least romantic. The sentiments of her heart concentrated 
in self. She knew she was handsome, and her only study 
was how to turn her good looks to some account — how to 
win, by her graces and accomplishments, a wealthy hus- 
band. 

When chance threw Mr. Temple in her way, every art 
was called into requisition to accomplish her designs. She 
admired him and loved him as devotedly as she could love. 
He, the soul of honor and truth, saw only the surface, and 
dreamed of nothing unfair — thought not of hidden breaches, 
ambushes, or counter-plots, but felt supremely happy in 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


65 


sharing his name and fortune with one so worthy, so beau- 
tiful, and so innocent. They were married. 

In very early youth she had been thoughtless enough to 
turn a willing ear to the praises and protestations of her 
cousin, Ben Darby, who was a year or two her junior. The 
conventionalities of life soon placed her before him, and she 
looked back at the affair, and regretted it as a very childish 
folly, and soon lost all remembrance of it. Young Darby 
felt the change, but resolved never to forget it, and never 
permit her to think he could. An undying revenge was 
smothered in his heart, and he gloated over the anticipation 
of success ; but his soft, oily voice, and the imperturbable 
smile, that lay like a tissue of light over his hypocritical 
face, said “ peace, peace,” when there was no peace. 
Darby was poor, and Miss Johnson had been taught from 
her cradle, that love and poverty were at variance. 

They were married, and Ben Darby smiled as he handed 
his cousin to the carriage which was to bear them off. He 
kissed his hand gayly as they drove away, and turned from 
the crowd to vent his smothered bitterness in half breathed 
curses. 

“ She shall rue it the longest day she lives. I will 
follow her to perdition,” were the venomous oaths. 

“ You had better thank your stars that you are rid of 
her,” whispered a voice close by. 

“ Fairmont, you think so ?” 

“ I know it ; she will prove a curse instead of a bles- 
sing ; there is one poor devil taken in, or my name is 
Haines.” 

“ Tell me why!” 


6 


66 


Mrs. Be^ Darby. 

“ If I were to tell you, you would not believe me ; it is 
incredible.” 

“ So bad as that ?” 

“ As bad as you could wish it.” 

“ And she loves another ?” 

“ I surmise she does.” 

“ You speak from suspicion only.” 

“ Oh Darby, you know well what I mean — certainly you 
do.” 

“ Indeed, I do not.” 

“ Have you truly no suspicion of what I am at ?” 

“ Hone, as I live.” 

“ Well, I’ll let you go on a voyage of discovery ; you 
will not be -as long getting at it as Columbus was in finding 
America, but you will be more astonished. Watch her 
well, Darby. ‘ There is something rotten in Denmark/ 
If I am deceived, you may take the corn.” 

“ Three weeks, three little weeks, on wings of love had 
o’er them flown,” when Mr. Temple discovered he had 
married a little too hastily, and, for once in his life, had 
committed a blunder. His wife was not just exactly what 
he supposed a wife ought to be. They were not congenial. 
She was frivolous and gay — but then she was young, and 
would soon lose some of the superabundance of youth’s 
elasticity. She was inconsistent and fitful — but she was 
petted and spoiled, and, no doubt, would soon imbibe a 
more placid temperament. His love, he thought, would, in 
course of time, remedy all her little peculiarities. They 
were so trivial, that he wished he had not noticed them. 
He had faults himself — he was too fastidious — he had raised 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


67 


the standard of feminine worth too high. He knew so little 
about the sex — perhaps it was true to their natures to be 
mysterious and inexplicable. They were all willful and 
impetuous, for Scott, the great genius of romance, had 
said 

“ Oh woman, in our hours of ease, 

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, 

* * * 

When care and anguish wring the brow, 

A ministering angel thou !” 

“ A ministering angel,” no doubt — and he would have 
willingly contracted the dyspepsia or consumption, so that 
he might realize her worth — but all the diseases in the cat- 
alogue of death, seemed to shun him, and he was forced to 
exercise that priceless pearl — patience. 

He bore, with manly fortitude, his accumulating per- 
plexities, until, in despair, he concluded he had married a 
sprite. 

As time rolled on, Mr. Temple made but slow progress 
in the study of feminine nature. His wife was a perfect 
enigma. He found he had been grievously deceived, but he 
bore it like a philosopher. Like a Christian, he set about 
to see how all evils could be remedied, but like a quack 
doctor, he commenced the application before he had disco- 
vered the cause ; of course, his progression was slow and 
uncertain. 

She was always on extremes — when gay, volatile — 
when serious, gloomy. Yet what distressed him most of 
all was, her unwillingness to visit with him his mountain- 
home — and she always recovered from her dark fits sooner, 
if he were absent, than when, by kindness and affection, he 
tried to win her smiles. He would leave her, sometimes, 
the picture of despair and gloom, and upon his return find 


68 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


her as smiling as a spring morning, or gay as the light- 
winged lark. 

This was painful in the extreme ; but he was so gentle 
in his nature, so truthful and unselfish in his love, that to 
see her happy was sufficient; at least, he made up his mind 
that it should be so. 

Darby was a frequent visitor at his rooms, but his calls 
were always well timed, and of a ceremonious character — 
he had no reason to be jealous, for his wife’s conduct 
toward her cousin was irreproachable. Although Darby 
was hovering like a vulture over the covert of the dove, yet 
she was unconscious of it, and innocent of any participation 
in his evil thoughts and designs. 

Time, however, by one of those strange casualties, over 
which human ingenuity has no control, terminated Mr. 
Temple’s misgivings and perplexities respecting the conduct 
of his wife. The denouement was clear and satisfactory, 
beyond the shadow of a doubt. 

Mr. Temple was thrown from his horse, which accident 
resulted in the dislocation of his ankle. He was taken 
home nearly insensible. His young wife was frantic with 
grief. When he recovered his consciousness, and found 
her so wild with anguish on his account, he consoled him- 
self with the hope that his painful disaster would reveal 
the latent good qualities of his wife. 

She lingered about him, whispering sweet words of con- 
solation and sympathy, while the surgeon was binding up 
the injured member. “ A ministering angel thou,” thought 
he, and his eye rested on her face in calm repose. 

The next evening early, she left her husband to 
make some necessary purchases. He appeared quiet 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


69 


and perfectly at rest. She promised to return in one hour. 
“In one short hour, dear,” she said, looking back at him 
as she left the room. The hour soon passed off ; the 
invalid was drowsy, and the moments glided dreamily 
away. 

Another hour — still, Mrs. Temple did not appear. The 
doctor came and found him much excited, and in a great 
fever. He had been so long listening for his wife’s step 
along the hall, and fancying a thousand evils, that he had 
worked himself into a fever. Bitter reflections came, one 
after another. He thought of his home among the hills, 
where the winds came in gentle whispers ; the fragrance of 
the woodbine, that dropped upon the window sill ; the chant 
of the birds, making their nests in the piazza roof; the 
soothing hum of the busy bees among the clover-blossoms, 
mingling with the distant and low tinkling of the cow-bells 
in the meadows; the form of his beloved sister, whose pre- 
sence always brought a balm for every anguish, a charm 
for every pain. 

The servant brought his dinner. 

“Has not Mrs. Temple returned yet?” 

“ Hot yet, sir.” 

“ Something must have happened.” 

“Where did she go, sir?” asked the servant. 

“ To the Bowery, John.” 

“ When did she leave, sir ?” 

“ At nine, this morning.” 

“ It is now four ; I think she will be in soon, sir.” 

“ Yes, I suppose. I am not accustomed to confinement, 
John, and I am restless.” 

He tried to read, to sleep, to think, but he had become 


70 


Mrs. Ben Darbv. 


so nervous that when the servant came in late in the after- 
noon, he found him ill, and in violent pain. 

The clock struck six — no appearance of Mrs. Temple. 
The poor sufferer groaned with agony and pain : at last, 
when night closed in, and the gas was lighted in his room, 
his uneasiness was vented in groans and bitter invectives. 
In the midst of this excitement the servant announced Mr. 
Fairmont. 

“ How are you getting along Temple ? In bed hey l” 

“ I am in great pain.” 

“Ah, well, Harry, every body pities you; you are a 
sober man. Now, if it was your humble servant — why let him 
go to the devil, the intemperate dog — but where is Mary ?” 
“ I have not seen her since morning.” 

“ No — how you talk !” 

“ I thought,” said Temple, faintly, “ she might be at 
your house.” 

“ So she was, at two o’clock, but she and her sister had 
a little disagreement, and Mary left suddenly and in a very 
ill humor. So she has not been here all day ?” 

“ Left me alone and in pain,” said he, bitterly. 

“You must teach her better,” said Fairmont, “it will 
not do to let women have their way.” 

“ Their hearts should teach them better.” 

“ Suppose they have none ?” 

“ They are not all heartless,” said Temple, with a 

sigh. 

“Sir,” said Fairmont, “ my wife never tries to cut capers. 
She did when we were first married, but I cured her in a 
hurry.” 

“ What do you call capers ?” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


71 


“Pouting, when I staid out of nights, and dumps, if I 
came home a little — you — know — how.” 

“ Mrs. Temple has never had anything of that sort to 
complain of.” 

“ I know it ; that is the very reason she imposes on your 
good-nature. Come with me some night, and we will take 
a regular bender — we will get drunk ; and come home and 
say, Mrs. Temple, I amyowrman — I’ll see you out, madam, 
if you are all trumps. Then pitch up the chairs and kick 
over the tables — sling down the washing crockery. I war- 
rant you, Mary would be as docile as a mummy.” 

“ Hush, Fairmont, said Temple, I cannot listen to you — it 
jars my nerves ; you know well it is not my nature to be 
violent.” 

“ Hor was it mine once,” said Fairmont, “ but I will tell 
you how it was, Temple.” 

“ Hot now, Fairmont, some future time, when I can listen 
with patience.” 

“ Ho time like the present — you can’t help yourself, my 
man, and while you are getting your foot cured you had 
just as well do up all the diseases at once ! Your wife. 
Temple, is very far from being an angel, like her sister, 
Mrs. Fairmont.” 

Temple groaned. 

“ But Jane used to be as fractious as a cat. I will tell 
you how I cured her. Yes, when we were first married, 
Jane was a woman of her own accord. She undertook to 
lay down the law to me whenever I came home glorious. 
One night Darby and I got in with some old cronies, and 
had a real breakdown ; when I went home I found Jane 
sitting up with the baby, crying and looking like she 


72 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


had been sold for half-price. So I laid down my cane, and 
pitched my hat up on the top of the bedstead, and screamed, 
i Huzza for General Jackson.’ Then, seizing the baby, I 
sent it up to the ceiling. 4 Hurra for John Quincy,’ 
screamed I, and away went baby ; but it came down 
greatly delighted with its aeronautic excursion. I caught 
it again in my arms, and looked to see how it had affected 
its mother. Poor Jane had fainted — the first thing she 
said when she recovered was, ‘ Simon, is the baby dead V 
I tell you, Temple, she never sat up crying for me again, 
with the baby; I cured her of that trick, certain. I believe in 
my soul if she had fifty of them, I never would see one if I 
came home braced. So you see, Temple, women can be 
cured.” 

“ The fault was all your own,” said Temple, “ why did 
you give her cause to weep ?” 

“ A woman, Harry, has no right to raise a muss because 
a man happens to come home a little transmogrified .” 

Fairmont was interrupted by a confusion of noises in the 
hall. A loud, unnatural laugh, made Temple start upright. 
There was a bustle — a sound of mysterious whisper- 
ings. 

The door was opened by Fairmont, and Temple heard 
him say, “ For God’s sake don’t bring her in here in that con- 
dition.” 

“ What is it? Speak !” gasped Temple, trying in vain 
to get off the couch. 

“ Be still, Harry, you will injure yourself,” whispered 
Fairmont. 

“ Oh have pity on me, Fairmont, tell me what has hap- 
pened to my wife ?” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


73 


“It is not much; Mrs. Temple has been taken sud- 
denly ill.” 

“ Oh! do help me up, Fairmont,” said the agonized hus- 
band, “she ” 

“ Lie still, you can't help her. It is only the hysterics ; 
women always have so many queer spells and odd fits. 
My wife used to have them, but they have left her. I tell 
her if any one has fits about the house it must be me — if 
there is any fitting to do, why, I'll do it myself.” 

“ Oh, she is ill, I know she is ; she could not have left 
me so long” — and Temple covered his face with his hands. 

“ Nothing but a palpitation of the heart ; she ran up 
stairs too rapidly — she will get better directly. They have 
taken her to her room ; be easy, Harry, a little ice-water — 
a spoonful of hartshorn will bring all right again. Women 
are queer creatures at best — hard to manage — you’ll find 
it so.” 

When Fairmont left the room he found Darby in the par- 
lor, looking very placid and self-composed. 

“You have found out, Darby, that Mrs. Temple, has a 
weak point,” whispered Fairmont. 

“ I loved her once well enough to take her with all her 
faults.” 

“ Then you ought to have married her, for I see Temple 
is not the man to bear such things. He is a very sober 
man, and would, I presume, prefer a sober wife. He will 
not live with her when he finds it out.” 

“ He promised to take her for better or worse. It is his 
own look-out.” 

“ If that was Mrs. Fairmont I would take her to the 


7 


74 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


lunatic asylum, and have a strait jacket put on her, or I 
■would trump up some excuse for her to visit BlackwelPs 
Island.” 

“ Mrs. Temple is your wife’s sister ; whatever affects one 
affects the other.” 

“ Not liquor, Darby; but tell me, has Temple found out 
that his wife , that there is something wrong ?” 

“ If he has not, his penetration is pointless; he will, how- 
ever, be likely to find it out to-morrow/’ 

“I feel very sorry that she will drink/’ 

“ I regret she has not tact enough to keep such things 
in secret/’ 

“ Tact, the d ! who can keep such things in the 

dark?—” 

“ Speak softly, Fairmont, or it will get out.” 

“ I guess it is out long ago. Now a man has a right to 
drink as much as he pleases — it is nobody’s business — but 
when a young, fashionable woman does it, she ought to be 
put in solitary confinement and fed on bread and water.” 

“ Have not the fair sex as much right to enjoy- the plea- 
sures of life as we have?” 

“You call intoxication one of the pleasures of life, do 
you? Well, I call it hell upon earth. I know you will 
allow that I know something about it.” 

“ Why persist in it then?” asked Darby, with a malicious 
smile. “ I never do a thing that is contrary to my wishes.” 

“ Talk on.” 

“ It shows a want of self-restraint, of independence, dis- 
cretion, and bad management.” 

“As far as your experience goes, Darby, it shows a lack 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


75 


of hypocrisy — strength in the nervous system — you are 
made of iron — you have no feelings, you never had — you 

are so d devilish in your nature that you can drink 

twice as much as any other man ; but, by heavens ! you 
walk erect and strut, as much as to say, ‘Am I drunk V 
and you are never putting on your pants hind-part before. 
The watch has never picked you up on the curb and carried 
you home, with your face bruised and a hole in your hat. 
No, sir ! you can reform just when you please — now I want 
to see you do it. They are getting up a temperance society 
on a novel plan, let me see you give them your name. A 
man who is as frigid and dogmatic as you are, with a pint 
of brandy stowed away, must be a phenomenon after 
drinking cold water for a week. Cool off once, Darby, 
just to see how you feel.” 

“ I will follow your example, Fairmont.” 

“Well, I expect to die — yes, I had just as well say it — 
in a gutter, or tumble off the leeward side of the ferry- 
boat, some Sunday, or be found frozen to death in the 
park, or with a fractured skull, by the watch ; but bad as I 
am, I would not have a drunken wife ; and I must say, 
Darby, it is not manly in you to take Mrs. Temple where 
she can indulge her propensity. You are not acting the 
part of a friend to hold the cup to her lips, even if it may 
bring her to you at last.” 

“She will get it any-way, Fairmont; it does not matter 
much — it will be all the same a hundred years hence — so 
come, boy, let ’s go and have a cozy punch in my room, 
and we will talk it all over, there.” 

The two worthies finished the evening together over 


76 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


cigars, oysters, and punch. Darby went to bed stupe- 
fied, but the uproarious Fairmont, singing and swearing, 
stretched himself on the lounge and fell, at last, into a 
profound sleep, singing 

“ Bid her shed not one tear of sorrow, 

To sully a heart so brilliant and bright ; 

But balmy drops from the red grape borrow 
To bathe the relic from morn till night.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


77 


CJjAjtUr 9. 

“ Ruin’s wheel has driven o’er us, 

Not a hope that dare attend, 

The wide world is all before us, 

But a world without a friend.” 

As the clock struck twelve Mrs. Temple stole softly into 
the sitting-room where her husband still occupied the 
lounge. He had at last fallen asleep, overcome by his 
mental suffering, bodily pain, and powerful anodynes. He 
was alone ; his servant had not yet taken his place to watch 
for the night. The intense pain he had suffered had gra- 
dually diminished, and a sweet repose followed its total 
cessation. 

Mrs. Temple looked upon him as he lay wrapped in 4 ‘the 
mantle of sleep his face was composed and his fine manly 
countenance indicated peace and resignation. She turned 
abruptly from him, fumbled about the bottles and glasses 
on the table by his side, then cautiously prepared to seat 
herself on the foot of the lounge. Totally unconscious of 
how far she might descend — miscalculating the proximity 
of the point of location, she came down with a tremendous 
velocity upon the inflamed and aggravated foot, which had 
not been easy one hour out of the twenty-four. A shriek 
of agony from the sufferer brought her a little to herself. 
She raised herself up, and drawing his foot into her lap, 
she began to trot it up and down with a savage vehemence, 
singing : 


78 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“Wreath the howl 
With flowers of soul, 

The brightest wit can find, 

We ’ll take a flight 
Toward heaven, this night, 

And leave dull earth behind.” 

A wild, smothered scream, in which was condensed the 
anguish of a torturing death, brought the servant to the 
room. He found Mr. Temple in a strong convulsion and 
his wife holding on to the dislocated ankle. She was 
removed from the room; the physician called and re-set 
the bone with inexpressible suffering to the patient. Days 
and months passed before he was able to come forth again 
from his room. Every means was used to prevent Mrs. 
Temple from indulging in her cups, but all W'as in vain. 
Mr. Temple saw that it was impossible to live with her in 
peace and security, and wisely determined to leave her. 
Several weeks before the birth of her infant, he kept her 
in close confinement, and when the child was five weeks 
old the wretchedly beguiled mother commenced her liba- 
tions to Bacchus with increased zest. A mother’s and a 
wife’s love were forgotten; what then could reach her 
heart ? what could reform her ? Mr. Temple had the child 
removed to a distant village to be nursed. They separ- 
ated. He occupied a room in one hotel and she in 
another. 

Ever generous and noble-hearted he gave her an ample 
maintenance ; enough to surround her with all the luxuries 
of life. She attempted to recover the* child, and she suc- 
ceeded in getting possession of it. She kept it two days, 
weeping bitter tears of repentance over it ; but the third 
day she became intoxicated, and while lying on the sofa, 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


79 


drunk and asleep, Mr. Temple’s confidential servant 
entered and softly stole it away. 

“ Did she make no resistance ?” asked the husband. 

“None, sir.” 

“ Was the child lying on the sofa ?” 

“Yes sir, with its feet up in its mother’s bosom and its 
head down.” 

Mr. Temple then resolved to remove Elinor to his pater- 
nal dwelling ; he could not bear the thought of leaving her 
within the reach of her mother. He was well aware his 
wife had friends, and some very reckless ones too. He 
knew, that when he left New York with the child, he was 
followed and watched. At Petersburg, he tarried several 
days at a friend’s house, and with a great deal of care, 
evaded the vigilance of his spies, and succeeded in placing 
the child in security, without giving them any clue to its 
asylum. 

Now, reader, you know his secret — a drunken wife ! A 
young, beautiful mother offering to the cherubic lips of 
ipnocence, the cankering, filthy mixture of a poisoned 
breast ; engendering in its developing constitution, the sta- 
mina of pollution. Mothers ! touch not, taste not ; let not 
one drop of the tempter’s cup mingle with the pure ele- 
ment of thy breast. Nature means for the infant to drain 
a pure fountain. 

We left Mrs. Temple lying rather uneasily on the sofa. 
The sound of the tea-gong roused her up. Finding her- 
self pretty capable of promenading the long halls and 
winding stairs, she was just coming to the determination to 
try the experiment, when the door opened, and Mr. Darby 
entered. He had just returned from Virginia, where he 


80 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


had gone, on purpose to restore Elinor to her mother. Mr. 
Temple had lately succeeded in getting a divorce, and Mrs. 
Temple had promised Darby to marry him, provided he 
succeeded in securing the child. 

Darby did not care so very much about gratifying the 
whims of the mother, but he thought he would be able to 
make money by the transaction afterward, for he knew 
Temple would spare no means to recover it. 

“ Oh ! Darby !” cried the lady, starting from her seat, 
“ is that you ? Oh ! where — tell me, where is my child ?” 

“ For heaven’s sake, Mary, don’t go off nov( into a 
double-twisted convulsion — be still,” and pushing her 
back to the sofa, he said, “What is the matter?” 

“ My child, Oh ! my child !” 

“Mrs. Temple,” said he, “you are getting wonderful 
motherly.” 

“Dear Ben, you are so cruel — so hard-hearted.” 

“ You shall first welcome me,” said Darby, “before I 
tell you another word.” 

“ Oh ! cousin, you are truly welcome. I never was so 
glad to see you — indeed I am — but I do want to see my 
child — Ben, you never were a mother,” said Mrs. Darby, 
trying to force up her tears. 

“ Nor ever expect to be !” said he ; “ but listen to me — 
you promised never to drink again, and you have broken 
your promise — can’t you learn to govern yourself? you 
must do it — you shall. Pray don’t expose yourself to 
your child — but that’s no affair of mine — she is not my 
child.” 

“ You know well, Ben, that I can’t keep from it — you 
know it.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


81 


“ But you can keep within bounds.” 

“I will try — I do try — but have pity on me, and tell me, 
where is my child ?” 

“She is with Fairmont.” 

“ Oh, goodness ! Darby, why did you leave her there ? 
I will go to her.” 

“You will do no such thing,” and he drew her back ; 
“ I was not aware that her aunt’s house was not a fit place 
for her.” 

“Yes, but you know his vulgarity — his loose conversa- 
tion.” 

“ Oh ! I forgot, your child is a Temple. 

“Now don’t be bitter, Darby — but you ought to know 
that Fairmont is not a fit protector for a girl ten years of 
age.” 

“You are becoming sentimentally moral — I sincerely 
wish your daughter’s presence may be beneficial to you.” 

“ Talk on,” said Mrs. Temple, “ I love to hear you — 
indeed, you are quite edifying — but stay, there she is ! I 
hear Fairmont’s voice.” 

The door opened, and Fairmont ushered into the room 
the little wild-flower of Wolf- Gap. She stood amazed in 
the middle of the apartment, totally at a loss how to pro- 
ceed. The mother held her arms open, but her emotions 
were too strong for utterance. 

“ Why don’t you go to your mother, you little Potawat- 
you ?” said Fairmont, pushing her forward. 

“Please let me be, sir.” 

“ Don’t you see your mother is dying to get at you ?” 

“ My mother — Oh ! no sir — did you say my mother t” 
cried Elinor, looking wildly, first at one, then at the other. 


32 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Elinor, my child, come, come to your mamma.” 

All the sweet, enrapturing thoughts of a mother’s love, 
rushed into the heart of Elinor. Her doubts vanished — and 
full of trust and faith, she fell on the bosom of her mother. 

“Mother dear — sweet mother,” and she laid her pale, 
but pure cheek, to the burning face of Mrs. Temple. 

“My sweet child — but do not call me mother; it brings 
to mind a big cap, with a wdde border — an apron, and tape- 
strings, with a bunch of keys tied on the side.” 

“ And piles of bread and butter,” said Darby. 

Elinor listened with astonishment. 

“ Your aunt Paulina, dear, I suppose, thinks it is Christ- 
ian-like, to say Mother, because it is in the Bible, but I 
wish you to call me Mamma.” 

“ Mamma, beautiful mamma,” said Elinor, twining her 
arms around the stately neck. 

“ How did you get her , Darby ?” 

“ Stole her.” 

“ Were you very sorry, love, when those barbarians 
caught you, and brought you away ?” 

“Yes, mamma, but I did not know that they were 
bringing me to you.” 

“We told you so,” said Darby. 

“Yes, I know you did, Mr. Darby, but you always 
winked at Mr. Fairmont when you said so, and I thought 
you were fooling me.” 

“ I suppose they taught you to hate me ?” 

“Who, mamma?” 

“ Paulina Temple, and your father.” 

“ Ho ma’am— I never knew I had a mother — a mamma, 

I mean.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


83 


“ You are a sweet, docile dove — did you think I was 
dead ?” 

“ I did; mamma, until these men ” 

“ Say gentlemen , love.” 

“ Dragged me away from dear, sweet Wolf- Gap — and 
don’t you think, mamma, that they were nearly all the 
time so drunk, that ” 

“ Come, Darby, it is time for us to leave — by George ! 
she is a bright one. Mrs. Temple, I am afraid you will be 
for paying us to take that young one back ! Good night.” 

“ Mamma,” said Elinor, drawing up closely to her again, 
“ did you send those men after me ?” 

“ Gentlemen, dear — you must say gentlemen.” 

“ But they are not, mamma.” 

“ I know best, love, what is proper.” 

“Well, they may be gentlemen in New York, but they 
could not be in Amherst.” 

“ Why not, dear ?” 

“ Because they are drunkards. Why did you send them 
for me ?” 

“ Because, love, I could not live any longer without 
you.” 

“ You loved me so?” and Elinor kissed her again, and 
smiled like one in a dream. “Why did they not come to 
the house and ask for me, and talk to grandpapa? but they 
caught me in the orchard — tied up my mouth, and threatened 
to kill me. Oh ! that hateful Darby — is he your cousin, 
mamma ?” 

“Yes, my love.” 

“ And Mr. Fairmont is your brother ?” 

“My brother-in-law.” 


84 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Oh ! I am glad he is not my own dear uncle.” 

“ You don’t like him?” 

“ I like him better than I do Darby.” 

“Mr. Darby, love.” 

“ Mamma, where is my father ?” 

“ Papa, love.” 

“ Where is he — do tell me ?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Not know? Oh, yes, you do !” 

“ I do not, child — we never see each other ; and if you 
stay with me, you must give up all your Wolf- Gap friends, 
and forget them.” 

“Not my own dear father ?” 

“ Yes — can you not give up all for me ?” and Mrs. Tem- 
ple looked so beautiful when she said this, that Elinor again 
hid her face in her bosom. 

“ I feel I shall love you better than all the world, mam- 
ma, except ” 

“No exceptions, Elinor — you must forget all.” 

“ God will not let me.” 

“But you will try, I know you will — but how old-wo- 
manish you look — your clothes look as old-timed as Lot’s 
wife, when she came out of the ark.” 

“ But Lot’s wife, mamma, was never in the ark — she 
turned to a pillar of salt.” 

“Yes, because she was prying into things that did not 
concern her,” continued Mrs. Temple ; but I say, Elinor, 
your clothes are a perfect libel on the past. Wolf- Gap 
fashions, I suppose.” 

“ Indeed, you are mistaken. Mr. Darby bought them 
for me in Richmond.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


85 


“ I thought Darby had better taste.” 

“ Oh, mamma, he has not one good quality about him.’ 

“You must not express such an opinion — you are too 
little to have one of your own.” 

“ I cannot help seeing when a person is drunk — can I ?” 

“ Well, dear, you must try and think better of him ; do 
you know that, perhaps, he will soon be your father?” 

“Never!” cried Elinor, her arms relaxing their hold 
upon her mother, “ my father is living — I can have but one.” 

“ I suppose they never told you that your father and I 
were divorced ?” 

“ What is divorced ? 

“Unmarried, love.” 

“ People can’t be unmarried without dying,” said Elinor. 

“Yes, dear — the law does it.” 

“ The law — Oh ! no, mamma ; for when Balph Jones and 
Sallie Barns got married at Wolf-Gap, the preacher said, 
1 Those whom God joins together, let no man put asunder/ 
and when I asked grandpapa what it meant, he said they 
had to live together until they died.” 

“ These things are beyond your comprehension, love — we 
will talk no more about it to-night ; be careful, dear, not to 
talk in company about your Balph Jones and Sallie Barnes ; 
it sounds vulgar.” 

Elinor understood enough to make her feel very un- 
happy, and even after she was introduced to the splendor 
and luxury of city life, she pined for the green fields and 
sweet quiet glades, where the music of nature, and the fra- 
grance of the earth, poured out their treasures upon the 
passing winds. 

She had been but a few days with her mother, when the 


86 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


novelty of having “a sweet, beautiful mamma, ” began to 
pall on her imagination. Although Mrs. Temple was beau- 
tiful and fashionable, and given to gross flattery, yet there 
was at best little in her to interest a pure-minded child, 
and Elinor’s education was so different from hers, that 
child as she was, Mrs. Temple could not cope with her ar- 
guments ; so there was very little congeniality between 
them. The idea of her mother marrying again, was full 
of horror and disgust. She felt, she knew there was some- 
thing wrong, but she was not old enough to enter into the 
merits of the case. The thought of having Darby for her 
daily companion, was torture, and the poor child brooded in 
painful silence over her misfortunes. She determined to 
write home in spite of all her mother’s precautions. Her 
mother’s love was all made up of sweet words and rich 
presents — books, clothes, and jewels — all were pleasing and 
novel to Elinor, but there was something missing ; she 
could not feel easy with her mother ; could not rely 
upon her in full faith ; there was no common sentiment 
or common feeling. If Elinor spoke of the mountains 
of Amherst, and her country associations, her mother 
always stopped her short, — 

“ Well, dear, you must forget all those vulgar people — 
you are in the city now.” 

Her mother left her alone so much of her time — she was 
sick so often — sat up so late at night, and slept so late in 
the morning — sometimes until dinner-time — then she was 
so fretful and peevish — always garrulous, and never agree- 
able only of evenings. Elinor was getting very weary of 
being shut up all day in the house, having access only to 
the parlor and halls. She read until her eyes ached — 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


87 


looked over all the streams and mountains which were in 
the pictures that adorned the walls, and her young heart 
yearned for the joys of country life — the song of the wild 
bird on the mountain’s crest — the murmurs of the crystal 
drops that washed the cleft rock — the noise of the geese in 
the meadow-brook ; but above all, the old school-house in 
the hollow, where she had passed so many bright and 
happy days, making bouquets of wild flowers, and twisting 
love-knots out of the long broom-straws. 

Tired of her thoughts, she gazed from the window to 
find relief by watching the crowd which swept to. and fro 
with the speed of thought. She read the signs over the 
street, and spelt them backward ; watched the neighbors 
at the boarding-house on the corner — the little pale-faced 
baby that lived at the window, tapping the glass with its 
tiny fingers, like a bird in a cage — the sickly-looking gen- 
tleman in No. — , pausing at his easel, and the old woman 
over the Insurance Office, with the mob-cap, brushing the 
dust and cobwebs from the shelves of the quaint-looking 
old room, while its inmate was walking on the Battery — 
the lady with the green shawl and brown parasol, who goes 
out and comes in so frequently ; she takes off the everlast- 
ing shawl, folds it up, and lays it away ; seats herself in 
the rocking-chair, and talks to herself. Elinor wonders 
what she is saying— expects she is tired of being alone. 
Then she became interested in a large building that was un- 
dergoing a remodeling, a huge brick house nearly opposite; 
they were pulling it down, and building it over ; the bricks 
were all taken apart ; the old crust of mortar removed, and 
the bricks piled up outside the curb-stone. A good many 

hands were employed, and all seemed very busy. So 
* 


83 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


deeply were her childish thoughts taken up in counting the 
loads of brick that were placed on the temporary tower, 
she did not notice that any one was near her. 

“Elinor,” said Hannah, “do not lean so far out of the 
window, you might fall out and crush somebody’s new- 
fashioned bonnet.” 

“No I won’t, Hannah; but only see that boy over 
there !” 

“Where?” 

“ Piling up the bricks, don’t you see ?” 

“ I see lots of them, all the time — there is no scarcity of 
the article in this city.” 

“Yes, but I mean that boy, there, with the straw hat 
and striped pants. Oh! look at him, Hannah, what a 
heavy load he carries!” 

“ He ’ll get done the sooner.” 

“ See, Hannah, how fast he walks ! there, don’t you see 
how fast he is piling them up ? Theodore ! Theodore !” 
she cried, almost springing from the window. 

“ Miss Elinor, your mamma will hear you — you had 
better not make her mad unless you want to see the devil’s 
wife !” 

“ Oh ! Hannah, that is Theodore !” and she called again, 
“ Theodore !” 

“ I ’ll Theodore you, you vulgar little de’il,” cried Mrs. 
Temple, seizing her by the shoulders and pulling her down ; 
“how dare you scream at those nasty, low-bred carriers? 
are you not ashamed of yourself? Come, come, no cry- 
ing — I will not have it ! Fix her up, Hannah, and bring 
her in the sitting-room — Mr. Darby wants to see her — 
mind, don’t provoke me !” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


89 


“Didn’t I tell you so!” said Hannah, as soon as her 
mistress left the hall; “she is one of the furies. Ah! 
child, your troubles are just beginning — I pity you and will 
do all I can to help you. I was going to leave, the night 
you came, but said to myself — I know a thing or two, so I 
concluded I would stay just on your account.” 

“You are very kind, Hannah, and I feel very sorry that 
mamma is angry — but, Hannah, that was Theodore — I 
know it was.” 

“And pray, who is Theodore, Miss, that you must be 
calling him from the window?” 

“ Oh ! you know, he lived just down below grandpa’s — 
I left him there when I came away.” 

“ How came he here ? It must be his ghost !” 

“I know it is him.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ By his walk.” 

“All hod-carriers walk queer,” said Hannah, laughing ; 
“ don’t be so foolish, and whatever you do, don’t you men- 
tion his name before your lady -mother — if you do, I pity 
you.” 

Elinor walked timidly into the room and was welcomed 
by Mr. Darby, who introduced her to some ladies and gen- 
tlemen who had met to have a social whist party. 

“What a sweet, little daughter you have,” said Miss 
Stitson — “very much like you, Mrs. Temple.” 

“She is the image of her father,” said Darby; “a 
Temple out and out.” 

Elinor looked down to hide the smile of satisfaction that 
would come over her features in spite of all her self- 
control. 

8 


90 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Elinor can sing like a canary,” said Mr. Darby ; “ have 
you ever sung for your mamma, child?” 

“No sir, she has never told me to sing.” 

“ The birds do not wait to be asked,” said Miss Stitson. 

“Yes, but they are out in the sunshine and can’t help 
singing.” 

“And have no mammas to scold them,” said Darby, 
mischievously. 

“ No ; and no Darby to hate,” said Elinor. 

“How did Mr. Darby find out that you sing?” asked 
one of the gentlemen. 

“ He heard me singing on the road when we were com- 
ing from Virginia.” 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Temple, she is a prize !” cried Miss Stitson ; 
“so very precocious ! Well, dear, you will sing for me — 
come sit here, where I can see your eyes — now begin, 
dear.” 

Elinor sang a sweet, simple air with simple words, which 
pleased the company very much ; at least, the gentlemen 
praised her and the ladies caressed her ; and between the 
two, Elinor, like “ children of a larger growth,” felt called 
upon to do her best to increase the admiration ; her vanity 
was excited. Turning to Mr. Darby, she said : 

“ Now, Mr. Darby, I ’ll sing a song that will just suit 
you.” 

“ Why will it suit me, pray, Miss Elinor?” 

“ Because it is a temperance song.” 

Loud peals of laughter broke forth at Darby’s expense. 

“Let’s have it, by all means,” cried Miss Stitson. 

“Yes, it will certainly be beneficial to Ben,” said a gen- 
tleman. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


91 


“ It must work a miracle, then,” said Mrs. Brown. 

“Why, Ben, the temperance question is beginning to 
seek out victims.” 

“Who composed your song, dear?” asked Mrs. Brown. 

“ I don’t know, madam; Mrs. Grimes got it from a Bos- 
ton newspaper, and she made me sing it at a quilting for 
Peter Larkins — you know Peter Larkins?” said she, look- 
ing trustfully at Ben Darby. 

The room rang with laughter. 

“One of your country cronies, hey! Darby?” said Mrs. 
Brown. 

Darby smiled blandly and bore the jests of his friends 
patiently. Mrs. Temple was on thorns. 

“Come, dear,” cried Miss Stitson; “'I am dying to 
hear it !” 

Elinor folded her hands on her bosom and sang in a 
sweet voice : 

The sun is brightly looming 
Over hill and over dale, 

The sweet may-buds are blooming 
Down in the winding vale. 

Crystal drops are falling 
On every leaf and flower, 

To life and beauty calling 
The wild woodland bower. 

Cold water, ever flowing, 

Thy diamond-drops are free — 

Cold water, sparkling, glowing — 

"We can drink, drink of thee. 

The wild deer on the mountain, 

The eagle on the steep 
Drink of the gushing fountain 
So limpid and so deep ; 


92 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


It ’s Heaven’s own distilling, 

For the sparkling waters glide 
Through the earth’s "bosom, filling 
The ocean with its tide. 

Cold water, ever flowing, 

Thy diamond-drops are free — 

Cold water, sparkling — glowing, 

We can drink, drink of thee. 

The amber wine-cup gleaming 
With the sweet grape’s crimson glow, 

Its wizard drops are teeming 
With bitterness and woe. 

Dark goblet ! oh, how cheating, 

Though thy brim may jeweled be, 

The pleasures, oh ! how fleeting 
To those who drink of thee. 

i 

Cold water, ever flowing, 

Thy diamond-drops are free — 

Cold water, sparkling — glowing, 

We can drink, drink of thee. 

A peal of merriment succeeded the song, and some one 
accused Darby of looking very penitential ; but he swore 
he had enough of cold water, and called up hot punch to 
carry off his chill. They all became very convivial. 
Champagne followed the punch, and some of the company 
were becoming a little uproarious. 

Mrs. Brown proposed to toast the temperance song ; and 
Miss Stitson, the singer ; so Darby poured out a glass of 
wine and handed it to the child, and expressed his admira- 
tion for the sonof. Elinor refused to take it. 

“ Thank you, sir, I never drank any in my life.” 

“ That is no reason you never should.” 

“ Papa never would let me taste it,” said Elinor, look- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


93 


ing beseechingly toward her mother. “ Indeed, he said I 
must never touch liquor.” 

“ Oh what a little vulgarity it is,” cried Mrs. Temple, 
turning crimson ; “it is wine, dear, never say liquor.” 

“ Yes, mamma, I know that, but it will make drunk 
come.” 

“ Do you know, child, you are acting very impolitely?” 

“ I suppose I am, but I cannot drink it, Mr. Darby.” 

“ Just taste it, Elinor, that is all that is required of you.” 

“ I will not touch it, for our preacher at Wolf- Gap, said: 
Touch not, taste not, nor handle the unclean thing.” 

“ What a sweet angel it is, quite a little moralist,” said 
Miss Stitson. “ She is a perfect treasure.” 

Mrs. Temple led Elinor to the door, and ordered Hannah 
not to permit her to return, but put her to bed. 

“Did you drink any punch ?” asked Hannah, who had 
been listening at the door. 

“ No, I did not.” 

“ That was just right; never taste it, never Miss — it is 
rank poison ; it kills soul and body both. I will take you, 
some night, to the Tabernacle, to hear the Temperance 
Lecturer — would you like to go ?” 

“ Very much, Hannah ; you are very good — but please 
let me look out of the hall window. I will not make a 
noise.” 

“ What for, child ?” 

“ Perhaps Theodore is there.” 

“ Thinking of him still ?” 

“ He is my old friend, Hannah, and he is very good and 
true.” 

“ How do you know ?” 


94 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Grandpa said lie could trust him with his honor or his 
life. Yes, yes,” whispered she, “ there he is still !” She 
clasped her hands, and he took off his hat and replaced it, 
with a very grave air. “ Oh yes ! Hannah, it is him, please 
let him in.” 

“ In here, child ! that will never do — I must take him to 
my room — he is just the size of Charley, my brother. 
My heart is warming up toward this Theodore of yours, 
dear.” 

“ Oh ! I love you for that, Hannah ; bring him in here 
first.” 

“ No ! come with me.” 

Elinor was so delighted when she saw Theodore, that 
she could scarcely keep still a moment. 

“ How d’ye do, Miss Elinor ?” 

“I am well, Theodore, how’s the folks at Grandpa’s ? 
Oh ! I have been so lonesome.” 

“ Lonesome, in this great city ?” asked Theodore. 

“ Yes, very — but, Theodore, you worked very hard to- 
day — it is worse than turning over Grandpa’s hay.” 

“ A little, Miss.” 

“ What makes you say Miss?” asked Elinor, eagerly. 

“ Because it*4s not the same as it was,” said the lad, 
gazing kindly at the excited little girl. 

‘Ham very sure I am the same Elinor, and you are the 
same Theodore,” replied the child, with a glowing face, 
full of trust and decision. 

“ We are in the city now, and must do as the folks 
here do.” 

“ Yes,” said Hannah, “ when we go to Rome we must 
be Romans.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


95 


“ Theodore Harper,” tell me, cried Elinor, “ what you 
came to Hew- York for, and who came with you ?” 

“ He came to see the Elephant/’ said Hannah. 

“ Where is the Elephant/’ asked Elinor, with childish 
credulity. 

“ Ah, that is it,” said Hannah, smiling quietly — “ that’s 
the question everybody asks ; well, dear, be easy, you will 
be very apt to see it before you leave the city.” 


96 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Cjiapter ID. 

I loved her as a brother loves 
His favorite sister.— l. e. l. 

“ Theodore, what made you leave home ? You were not 
dragged away with your mouth stopped up with an old 
dirty pocket-handkerchief, as I was.” 

“No, I hope I was not,” said Theodore, with a look of 
decided heroism. “ They would have stirred up a very 
different kind of a coon, the drunken varmints !” 

“ I wish I was back at the “ Gap,” don’t you, Theo- 
dore ?” 

“ No, Miss Elinor — this is a great city. There are so 
many ways to get along here and to learn.” 

“ You cannot go to school, can you ?” asked Elinor, with 
a tear in her eye. 

“ No ; but I can work all day, and Saturday night I can 
go to lectures — on Sunday, to Sabbath School and church ; 
and I can rent lots of books to read. You see, Elinor, 
(Miss, I mean), when they brought you off, the whole 
plantation was in a dreadful panic. Your aunt Paulina was 
nearly crazy. Some ran one way, some another — some 
went for the doctor for poor yellow Joe, who was nearly 
killed — some went for the constables. Miss Paulina gave 
me some money, and told me to take old Cindarilla, and 
never stop until I come up with you. Her word was always 
my gospel, so I started off ; but I did not get the old mare. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


97 


You know how contrary and hateful she gets, sometimes. 
I put off in the direction they went, and, knowing all the 
by-paths through the hills, I took every near cut I could, 
and I know very little grass grew under my feet. I never 
should, however, have caught up with them, if it had not 
been for a gentleman from Bottetourt county, that was tak- 
ing a drove of mules and horses down to Petersburg, for 
the lower markets. He had his creatures in a pasture, and 
was about getting his breakfast when I went into the inn. 
When I asked the tavern keeper if he had seen a dearborn, 
and two gentlemen, and a little girl with black curls — ” 

“ That was me, wasn’t it, Theodore ?” inquired Elinor 
in great glee. 

“ It was nobody else. I was not thinking of anything 
else, but how to catch up with the villains ” 

“Hush ! Theodore,” said Elinor, putting her hand over 
his mouth. “ There is one of them in the parlor — speak 
low.” 

“ I would not tell my name if I was afraid of either of 
them ! 

“ You are right, brother,” said Hannah, “ but still, it is 
best not ‘ to nod at a sheep when you have your hand in its 
mouth but go on with your story.” 

“ Well, as I was saying, the landlord said, they passed 
there two days ago — they stayed there all night, and the 
child cried herself to sleep.” 

“ I would not have cried, Theodore, if I had thought 
you were so near.” 

“ The man,” continued Theodore, “had a fractious crea- 
te along, that would neither drive nor be driven. As I was 
talking along the roadside, he asked me what I would take 
9 


98 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


to ride the animal to Petersburg. I told him I would 
ride him if he would pay my expenses there and back ; so 
I did it.” 

“You were quite a good manager,” said Elinor, highly 
delighted with his narrative. 

“Where there is a will, there is always a way,” said 
Hannah. “ A handful of mother wit is worth a bushel 
of learning ; but go on, brother, and tell us how you got 
along.” 

“ I could tell you a pretty long history — but we have 
not the time now, so I must be concise and short in my 
story.” 

“ Short and sweet,” said Hannah. 

“ I traveled a very long road before I came in sight of 
you, Elinor. Just as we got in the suburbs of Petersburg, 
I saw the carriage, and knew it for the one that had stood 
at the * Cross-Keys.’ It was nearly night, and the man 
whose horse I had ridden, gave me money to pay my way 
home again. I went in the hotel, and seated myself to reflect 
on what I ought to do. I counted over my little stock, 
and felt quite satisfied that I should not starve. I deter- 
mined, however, to be very saving.” 

“ ‘ Better spare at the brim than at the bottom,’” said 
Hannah, soberly looking at the youth ; “I hope you will 
continue as you have begun.” 

“ So I bought me some crackers and cheese, and then 
thought I would walk out a little, and see the place, as it 
had been a long time since I was there. As I was going 
up High street, I looked into a confectionary shop window, 
at the nice things that were placed there for show, and 
heard some very loud words uttered at the door, and turning. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


99 


I saw the same man who carried you off — he was quite 
drunk, and his companion was trying to get him back 
to the tavern.” 

" 'Here, my lad/ said the youngest gentleman; 'here, 
take these bundles and follow me’ — so I took them and 
walked behind them to the hotel. When we got to the 
office he told me to bring them up in the parlor. I did as 
he bade me, and when I got up in the room he told me to 
throw them on the sofa. As I passed over to dispose of 
my burden, I saw you sitting in a big rocking-chair, fast 
asleep. I don’t know, but it seems to me, that there were 
two tears still fresh on your cheek ; but you were resting 
as sweetly as if you were at home in your crib.” 

"Oh! I wish you had whispered 'Elinor!’” cried the 
young girl, clapping her hands at the very thought. 

"Yes/’ said Hannah, laughing in her quiet but quick 
way ; " then all the fat would have been in the fire ; but go 
on, brother, and tell us how you got on, and why you did 
not inform on them.” 

" How could I ? what could a poor, friendless, unknown 
boy, like me, do with such desperate men with their pockets 
full of money? I knew if I said one word, they would 
have me put in jail under some false accusation — in fact, I 
did not know what to do, and I was afraid of trying to do 
anything — it would only make matters worse. The gentle- 
man gave me a quarter for bringing his things home ; so I 
said to myself — this will buy me a night’s lodging. So I 
slept all night in the same tavern in order that I might 
watch them. They got drunk and kept it up nearly all 
night. I got up very early and took my station where I 
could mark all their movements.” 


100 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Did you see me again ?” asked Elinor. 

“Yes, in the evening, when you were riding in the stage 
to Richmond ; I was on the outside with the driver. At 
night, when the moon was shining as bright as day, I 
peeped in, when the gentlemen were dozing, and saw you 
turning over the leaves of a little book.” 

“Oh, yes! I mind now,” said Elinor; “but I did not 
see you.” 

“ I didn't intend you should then, Miss Elinor. You 
staid in Richmond three days, and I was not very far off — 
near enough to watch the folks every time they left the 
doors. I thought to myself, that I had just as well keep 
on following them — for I knew they would stop some time ; 
and I thought, too, it was just as well to stay and seek my 
fortune now, as to go back and begin again — for you know, 
I have got it to make, and the sooner the better.” 

“I tell you, brother,” said Hannah, “‘a rolling stone 
gathers no moss but go on, we have very little time.” 

“ I came to Hew York on the same packet-boat with 
you, Miss Elinor, and when we landed here, as we left the 
boat, Mr. Darby gave me his portmanteau and cloak, and 
bade me follow him. I passed along through the crowd, 
close behind him, and when we reached the hotel I 
deposited the articles according to order. As he was get- 
ting diis purse open he looked at me very hard and said : 

“ ‘I have seen you before V 

“ * Yes, sir.' 

“ ‘ Where V 

“ ‘At Petersburg, sir, and perhaps on the packet- 
boat.' 

* Where are you going V said he. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


101 


“ < I am not going anywhere,’ said I. 

“ 4 Do you not belong to this city?’ said he — * you look 
new and verdant.’ 

“ ‘ Henceforth, sir,’ said I, 4 it is my intention to live in 
a city.’ 

“ ‘ Come to find mischief to do, hey ?’ 

“ ‘No sir,’ said I, ‘ I hope not.’ 

“ ‘What can you do?’ 

“ ‘Almost anything that is right and decent,’ said I. 

“ ‘ I will give, you employment in a retail liquor store, if 
that will suit you. I like your looks — you have nothing 
sneaking about you.’ 

“ ‘ I would not like to be in a liquor store, sir; I have 
no relish for the business, and I don’t want to be in the way 
of temptation.’ 

“ ‘ You are a bigger fool than I took you to be,’ said 
he — giving me fifty cents — as he said — for my trouble and 
old acquaintance-sake. I did not feel well to take his 
money, but knew my situation was urgent, and that I must, 
of course, subdue my feelings and many wants, even to 
live in such a place and be honest. Just as I turned off 
from the hotel door, and was looking up and down, won- 
dering at the splendor and show of novelties that presented 
themselves ’ ’ 

“ Like a cat in a strange garret,” said Hannah. 

“ Well, while I stood there, some one pulled me by the 
shoulder and said, ‘ Halloo ! Theodore, is this you, or is it 
your ghost V — and who do you think it was, Miss Elinor?” 

“ My papa?” 

“No — but Peter Larkins.” 


102 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Peter Larkins ?” 

“ Yes ; m New York ! I tell you, Miss, lie looked ” 

“ Natural as a gourd, ” said Hannah. 

“ Was he drunk ?” asked the child. 

“ Not a bit of it, Miss — then he told me he had been put 
in jail, since we left, and how he had made his escape and 
was on his way to Ohio, where he intended to reform, and 
then send for his family. 

“ He took me to the house he had stopped at, and we 
passed the night together. He told me that the gentle- 
men, who had taken you away, were your mother’s rela- 
tions, and that no evil could befall you — that they were 
bringing you to your mother; and I am very glad that 
such was the case ; but still, I know enough to be very 
certain that they did not have any good motive in stealing 
you off in the way they did. I told him so — but he said we 
could do nothing now, that we were poor and friendless — and 
it was useless to confront them — that I must write back to 
the Gap and let them know where you are. Poor fellow I I 
felt very sorry for him. He wanted to divide his funds 
with me, but I would not hear of it. I told him that I was 
rich in health and strength and could get along. 

“ So you like your home, Miss Elinor? how could you 
help it! — everything so fine.” 

“Ah ! brother,” said Hannah, “ appearances are deceit- 
ful — all is not gold that glitters — this is no place, I tell you, 
for that child, and the sooner she gets away the better — 
but go on with your story.” 

“It is nearly finished. As I stood on the pier looking at 
the boat in which Peter had taken his passage, a man 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


103 


called to me and asked me to take a dog up to the museum 
for him — it was a very queer-looking animal. I carried it 
up for him, and he gave me a dollar and offered me some- 
thing to drink. I told him I never drank anything stronger 
than water. * That ’s a fine fellow — and if you take my 
advice, you never will/ said he.” 

“ I warrant you, he took a little himself,” said Hannah; 
“ good preachers give their hearers fruits, not flowers.” 

“ Yes, I saw him afterward, and he was stumbling along 
as drunk as a loon. I expect, he had drank up his dog.” 

“ That is going the whole dog, brother, is it not?” 

“ I should say it was 

“ Tell on, Theodore, you are almost as interesting as 
Robinson Crusoe!” 

“ Oh! no, Miss Elinor.” 

“Yes, but you know, it is not just like it — for you could 
not be put to it so in a city where there are so many 
things — you could not act Robinson Crusoe here” 

“ I tell you it is a hundred times harder, children getting 
along, in a city, than on a desolate island — if you believe 
my racket — flesh and blood rubbing against flesh and 
blood ! I tell you, it is better to be in solitude and alone — 
but finish your story, brother.” 

“It is finished,” said Theodore. “I found I could get 
work as a daily laborer, and chance brought me to the 
building opposite.” 

“ Hot chance — Qh ! no — not chance, Theodore ; there is 
no chance — it was Providence,” cried Elinor, with great 
earnestness — “ God watches over us — God is every- 
where.” 

“ Yes, children, God is still where he was — but say, Mr. 


104 


Mrs. Ben Darbt. 


Theodore, you can tell us something else — where do you 
board ?” 

“Oh!” said he, looking down and blushing — “boarding 
is out of the question — that is further a-head yet.” 

“Well, who eats and washes you?” 

“Nobody eats me , and I wash myself” said Theodore, 
laughing. 

“ But where do you stay ?” 

“ I stay about the building all day, and sometimes at 
night — and when I am hungry, I buy something at the 
stalls to eat.” 

“Theodore, you have no home!” said little Elinor, and 
the tears fell from her eyes. 

“No, Elinor,” replied the youth in a low, soft tone — 
“no home — no friends /” and his lips quivered with emo- 
tion — “ I know none here but you } Elinor /” 

“ You must not live this way, brother — it is not right; 
after I put Miss Elinor to bed, I will go with you to Green- 
wich street, where you can get quite genteel boarding — 
where you can stay of a night, and not sleep out as you 
have done.” 

“ I am so afraid of bad company.” 

“You will find folks there like yourself; it is kept by a 
very decent old woman. She will not have fracases about 
her ; when servants get out of place, they stay there until 
they find a new situation.” 

“ Servants !” said Elinor, with emphasis. “ Theodore is 
no servant ; he belongs to one of the first families in Vir- 
ginia.” 

“He is a poor young person,” returned Hannah, a little 
piqued, “ and has to do the best he can. I tell you, it does 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


105 


mighty little good to belong to a first-rate family, in any 
place, when one finds themselves in the center of New 
York, with empty pockets and no rich kin. An ounce of 
gold is better than a pound of honor.’’ 

“Yes, Miss Elinor,” replied Theodore, “Hannah is 
right ; I must do the best I can ; but Miss Elinor, you ought 
to find out where your papa is, and let him hear that you 
are safe.” 

“He would not think she was very secure,” said Han- 
nah, “if he knew she was here in this place ; he does not 
wish her to be with her mother ; only just hear them now. 
What did he take you away for ?” — she spoke rapidly, but 
in a low tone — “ he does not want you corrupted.” 

“ Mamma will take care of me.” 

“ She is not capable of taking care of herself,” replied 
Hannah, looking significantly at the youth. 

“ Why, Hannah ?” 

“ Because she is remarkable weak,” replied the girl, 
winking at Theodore; “ sometimes she is so weak she can 
scarcely walk at all.” 

“ Then I ought to stay with her and lead her,” said 
Elinor. “ Oh ! Theodore, I wish you could see my mam- 
ma ; she is very beautiful.” 

“Yes, when she is at herself she is a very nice lady ; 
but she is very often ill-disposed. I will put this young 
lady to bed, and then I will go with you, sir.” 

“ Theodore must come again ; will you not ?” 

“ It is just as Hannah says ; I want to do right. I can’t 
say what is proper ; for what is right in one place, may 
not be so in another.” 

“Yes, indeed, you shall come some night when the folks 


100 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


are away ; but don’t show your face here in daytime, or 
you will be suspected.” 

Elinor was very sorry to part from her old playmate, but 
felt comforted by the assurance of seeing him again. 

Elinor had not been with her mother three vreeks before 
she became weary of the change. The presence of the 
child was a check on her usual habits. She drank, it is 
true, but maternal love and womanly pride withheld her from 
exposing herself to the pity and contempt of her discrim- 
inating child. Things could not long remain thus ; Mrs. 
Temple lost, by degrees, the influence of her better feelings, 
and returned again, with renewed relish and fresh avidity, 
to her virulent course of conduct. 

The insinuations of Hannah were lost on the innocent 
and ingenuous child. She knew that men sometimes be- 
came intoxicated. She had seen, to her great disgust, the 
preference her mother bestowed on the dissipated Darby. 
The knowledge of the fact had cost her much, but when 
she discovered the mystery of her folly, it came on her like 
a death-stroke ; the fresh buoyancy of childhood was gone, 
never to return — the outgushing joy of youth was pressed 
back upon the heart. The gentle, yet proud child, was 
crushed — mortified — humiliated. 

A drunken woman ! and that woman her mother — the 
wife of her honest, frank, high-minded father. How she 
knew how he suffered ; why his cheek was pale ; why his 
voice trembled. How she knew all — yes, all. 

She had been out with Hannah to the bird-store, and had 
returned in childish hilarity, with the sweetest bird in the 
world, and springing lightly into the room, she threw her 
arms rather rudely around the neck of her mother. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


107 


Mrs. Temple, who had made frequent visits that morning 
to her china boutelle, was in the land of visions and mental 
aberrations, almost unable to realize who or where she was. 
The hearty embrace of little Elinor’s vigorous arms, threw 
her into a violent rage ; she seized her by the throat, and 
after choking her nearly breathless, she pushed her off 
with so much force that the child’s head struck against the 
bedstead post, and hurt her very much. 

Hannah rescued the child from her, and administered to 
her necessities. 

Overcome with excitement, Mrs. Temple threw herself 
back on the sofa, like a worried hyena. 

Poor little girl ! she turned from the loathsome, degrad- 
ing sight, burying her face in her hands ; her convulsive 
sobs and bitter tears, told how deeply aggrieved she felt, 
and how irretrievable her destiny. 

“ What are you sitting there for, Elinor, as if you were 
screwed to the win-ther ?” said Mrs. Temple, trying in 
vain to raise herself from her ungraceful attitude ; “ come 
here — raise the curtain.” 

Elinor came close to her. 

“ Are you homesick — tired already of me ?” 

“No! no, mamma.” 

“Whisper, then, love, and tell me why you are discon- 
tented ? — you shall tell me — I have a right to compel you — 
come, speak out,” and Mrs. Temple strung the long curls 
of the child through her fingers, with as much sang-froid 
as if she was asking the simplest question in the world — 
“ Oh ! how you pucker up your features ; you will spoil 
your beauty.” 

“ Beauty is very little account, sometimes, Miss Elinor, 


108 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


unless it goes in company with good behavior,” said Han- 
nah, letting down one curtain, and drawing up the other 
with a prophetic vehemence. “Some people preach, but 
never practice.” 

“ Come, dear, we will adjourn to the parlor, and let 
Hannah finish the room.” 

“Ho ! no! mamma, please stay,” cried Elinor, holding 
her down. “You must not — you can’t go down.” 

“ I can’t? — I would like to see you prevent me. I must 
go.” She raised herself up, and tried to hold by the fur- 
niture. 

“ Let her go, Miss Elinor.” 

“Ho! no! mamma — have mercy on me, if you have 
lost all shame for yourself ; the parlor is full of ladies — it 
is such a disgrace.” 

“ She ain’t a-going, dear — she shall not,” and Hannah 
passed swiftly before her and closed the door, then turned 
the key. 

Mrs. Temple, when she found she could not get out, 
seated herself, and looked very silly. 

“ Mamma,” cried Elinor, falling on her knee before her, 
“if you knew how miserable I feel, you never would do so 
again.” 

“ I never will strike you again.” 

“ Oh ! it is not that, mamma — I mean drinking.” 

“ Well, put down the curtains ; don’t cry, love Elinor 
obeyed in fear and trembling ; “ there, put it dowd — 
I declare you are the roughest gawk I ever saw, you 
great mountain pine-knot — come to your mamma, dear — 
who has been throobling my darling — who has interfered 
with mamma’s wild daisy !” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


109 


“Not I, madam, if you mean me;” said Hannah, jerking 
up the things which were out of place, “A body’s friends 
sometimes is a body’s worst enemies — I never put my 
spoon in other people’s platters.” 

“ My darling,” continued the lady, “ why are you 
crying ?” 

“ Oh ! my mamma, I feel very unhappy indeed, but I 
cannot tell you why.” 

“ But you shall, Miss ; you need not think I don’t know 
you have been taught to hate me — I feel you never will 
love me.” 

“ Oh I did love her — did I not Hannah ? and I could 
love you, my own dear mamma, if ” 

“ That is a little, long, narrow word,” said Hannah, in a 
low tone, “ but it takes up a heap of room when it comes in.” 

“ No doubt, you would have loved me, if you had not 
been taught better — I am sure I have done all I couth 
to please you — but ungrathful people ” 

“ Oh ! indeed, I am not ungrateful, mamma — indeed I 
am not.” 

“Well! wipe that black place off your face, and look 
happy and smiling.” 

“ I can’t get it off, mamma.” 

“ Let Hannah try.” 

“It is past Hannah’s skill,” said the girl, menacingly; 
“you had better send for the doctor.” 

“Why, what is it!” inquired Mrs. Temple, completely 
bewildered. 

“It is where you struck her, or choked her,” said 
Hannah ; “ and mind, if she dies with that on her face, it 
will be the worse for you.” 


110 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Mrs. Temple laughed in a horrid, idiotical way, and 
tapping her fingers on the sofa, as if she was playing on 
the piano, and faintly muttering, “You certainly all are 
turned fools,” lay back quite motionless. 

The little weeper sat at the window, the tears falling 
thick and fast. The window was her refuge from per- 
plexity.. She could not but forget for a few moments, her 
own situation, in watching the variety of groups, that pre- 
sented such new and untliought of pictures to the observer. 
The richly dressed, the flaunting figures which exhibited 
themselves on the street — the wretched, tattered, abject 
and houseless vagabond, hurrying to and fro, as if pro- 
pelled by some invisible spring — the brilliant carriages, 
rolling up and down Broadway, and the drays and ice 
carts ; the rich and poor, bond, free, rumbling and tumb- 
ling helter-skelter, knock-me-down crowd, that moved to 
and fro like a double panorama — 

“ Miss Elinor,” and some one touched her shoulder, 
“ come help me to lay your mother on the sofa, she will 
slide directly, and break her Grecian nose, as she calls it.” 

“ Please, Hannah,” said Elinor, struggling hard to 
subdue her emotion, “ don’t laugh at her, it is so 
hard.” 

“Don’t I knowhow the shoe pinches, Miss Elinor; I 
have just sich a mother, only, mine is poor, friendless, and 
has a poor, weak, degraded husband. Ah ! it is me that 
can feel for you— ^t is only my way of talking and doing. 
If I could help it I would — but what is bred in the bone 
will never come out of the flesh.” 

“You speak so lightly, Hannah.” 

“ The truth is, somehow or other — I don’t know how it 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Ill 


is, but it is so. There are so many feelings mixed up to- 
gether, when you see a person intoxicated, that pity makes 
a very poor show.” 

“ But listen, Hannah — when that person is your own 
dear mother ?” 

“ Miss Elinor, when you have worried and fretted, and 
worked, as I have, with the unreasonableness of such 
folks, your patience will get threadbare — but I don’t know, 
you have a softer heart than mine, and you must not stay 
here until it becomes as hard as a nether mill-stone. Lift 
up your mamma’s foot — there, place it on the ottoman — 
there — stretch down the dress a little further over the 
foot. She looks like a bride elect 1” 

“ What is elect ?” asked the child. 

“ Why going to be — hand me that vail, dear, to spread 
over this yawning abyss of punch and wine.” 

<( Oh, please, Hannah !” 

“ Never mind, dear — all’s well that ends well — there 
now — I hope she will sleep until I do all I have to do — 
good saints ! she breathes like an alligator — so come, dar- 
ling, let’s go up to the Bowery.” 

“Mamma said I must not leave the house without lier 
knowledge.” 

“ She meant by yourself, child.” 

“ Did she ?” 

“ Certainly; you never supposed she intended to keep 
you like a bird in a cage — you went with me this morning, 
why not this evening — what’s good for the fish is good for 
the sauce.” 


“lam afraid.” 


112 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Afraid of whom ?” 

“ Mamma ; and afraid of doing wrong.” 

“ You are not in duty bound to mind her ; and be- 
side, she told you we might go out for bird-seed, you 
know.” 

“ Oh yes ! she did — I will go with you.” 

“ You must go with me — I can’t leave you here with 
your mother in this condition, you are in danger of being 
murdered — only see your poor bruised up face — you look 
as if you had been in a row at the Five-points — come, get 
your hat on, and as it is quite cool out, you must put your 
mantle on.” 

Little Elinor was so painfully occupied in bitter reflec- 
tions, that she did not pay any attention to the hurry-flurry 
proceedings of her waiting-maid — how quickly she turned 
the articles of the toilette — cramming her basket with 
brushes, soap, combs, etc. She then gathered up the most 
valuable articles of the child’s wardrobe. Finally, when 
they got to the door, Hannah said; “ Here, Miss, you will 
have to carry this wallet, it will not hurt you, if you are 
aristocracy.” 

“ I wish to help you, Hannah, you are so kind to me — 
but what are you taking such a load for — all the brushes 
and combs ?” 

“He who asks questions,” said Hannah, looking very 
mysteriously at the child, “ often hears more than he 
wants — so, dear, keep your mouth shut, and your eyes 
open.” 

“ Do tell me, why you are taking the bird-cage 
out ?” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


113 


“ To air the dear little creature, so come on, love.” 

“This is not the way to the Bowery!” said Elinor, as she 
turned down Maiden Lane. 

“ There are more ways to the gallows than one,” re- 
plied Hannah, dragging the child with her down a little, 
dirty, crowded alley, where they were soon lost in the 
crowd. 

10 


114 


Mrs, Ben Darby. 


CJmjitn 11. 

Together thus they shunn’d the cruel scorn 
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet 
From giddy passion and low-minded pride.— Thomson. 

On Abingdon-square, in a dilapidated building, afford- 
ing but little shelter, so frail and decayed that it could 
scarcely be called a dwelling, sojourned the family of Simon 
Fairmont. The rooms were scantily furnished, but in the 
arrangement of the household everything was placed to 
the best advantage. Some few cherished ornaments on the 
mantle-piece, souvenirs of the past, and a neat little work- 
table, with a rocking-chair, remained as attestations of 
brighter and more prosperous days. 

Mrs. Fairmont had taken very hard lessons of privation 
and sorrow since the early days of marriage, (such as thou- 
sands have borne). She had passed through many heart- 
breaking scenes, such as would have crushed the heart and 
spirits had she not learned humility and fortitude of Him 
who lingered with the woman of Samaria at the well — who 
whispered to Mary that her sins were forgiven, and peace to 
the Syro -Phoenician heroine, who begged only for the 
crumbs of his compassion. Every drunkard’s wife needs 
Divine support — a double portion. Mrs. Fairmont sought, 
not only to fulfill her duty, but also those of her husband, 
as far as she could ; striving to remedy the evils which 
intemperance was bringing upon her young and growing 
family ; teaching them lessons of forbearance and content- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


115 


ment — to lay up treasures in that world where the con- 
temned sojourners of this life find reparation and repose. 

The cruel, inexorable husband was forced to see and feel 
her superiority; to acknowledge that her life was irreproach- 
able. She trusted in her Savior, and the precepts of his 
Heavenly doctrine opened in her soul a fountain of living* 
waters. Her religion raised her above the calamities of 
earth ; although she was now experiencing, among all 
her other troubles, the ravages of want — the pinchings of 
poverty, and all the horrors which throng, like evil specters, 
about the dwelling of the confirmed drunkard. Her life 
had been made up of privations, humiliation, and exertion ; 
yet never, in all the phases ofihis wayward career, had she 
seen one hope of reformation ; but every year added to her 
grievances, until all hope of a change was banished from 
her mind. When Fairmont found his wife was getting, as 
he called it, be-sainted, he raised a terrible scene — swore 
he would break her neck, or else he would break her of 
that trick. 

One evening he found she had gone to church, and he 
determined to follow her thither, and see for himself how 
things were managed. The services were nearly con- 
cluded when he entered. 

The sexton met him at the door, and seeing his 
condition, would not let him in. He was boisterous, 
and made great confusion, and was driven off by the 
officers of the police. He was at home when his wife 
returned. 

“ You talk about late hours ,’ 9 said he, looking daggers 
at his inoffensiv? wife. “ What do you think of yourself, 
madam ; now answer me that, will you?” 


116 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


She laid her hat off, and seated herself in her usual 
place, with a calm, unruffled countenance. 

« You are wonderfully composed madam. I suppose 
you are showing me how Christians can fight the devil : 
well, madam, if that’s your game, we’ll see who is master. 
If you suppose that I will put up with such folly as you are 
practicing you are mistaken ; do you hear ? Stay at home, 
madam : do you comprehend me ! 

“ I do, sir.” 

“ You have that much sense left, hey ? Mind, you must, 

in future, stay away from that d d old humbug of a 

church, crying and groaning as if the devil was after you 
with a long pole. You will stay at home !” 

“Will you stay with me, dear?” 

“ I ’ll teach you, madam, that my business is my own, 
and yours is to obey.” 

“We will not quarrel, Fairmont. Oh ! do not be 
harsh !” 

“Answer me one question — Do you intend to keep up 
this mummery of praying and shouting?” 

“It is not foolishness — leave me, my husband, at least 
the comfort of worshiping my God in peace !” 

“ Do you intend to keep it up?” 

“ God being my helper, I will try and do my duty!” 

“And frequent that old musty crowd of groaning 
hypocrites?” 

“ I most assuredly will,” said Mrs. Fairmont, as if driven 
to sudden resolution. “There is your God!” and she 
pointed to a decanter which he had emptied — “you wor- 
ship it with all the powers of soul and body. Wife, home 
and children, character and health are all sacrificed to 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


117 


appease its demands. You devote all to it — leave me, 
then, the privilege of worshiping my God /” 

“ Do you see this?” and he showed her a small rattan, 
which he madly raised over her head — “ do you see this?” 

“ Yes, Mr. Fairmont — hut what of it?” 

“Why the next time, madam, you are found in that 
lying, hypocritical muss , I ’ll give you something that will 
make you shout in good earnest. I ’ll see, Mrs. Fairmont, 
which is the strongest, me or your religion!” 

“ Oh, husband !” cried Mrs. Fairmont, pressing her 
hands to her ears — “ you are chilling me to the heart!” 

“ I ’ll do it — don’t you believe it ?” 

“You think you will ; but I will pray to my heavenly 
Father, who is in heaven, to soften your heart toward her 
who has loved you so fondly — so truly. Oh! no! hus- 
band, you could not strike me!” 

“I could not? By thunder! I’ll see who will prevent 
me?” 

Rushing forward, like a demon, he caught her by the 
hair, and drawing her down on her knees, was just in the 
act of striking, when his passion and fury were checked 
suddenly by spasms, and he fell in convulsions on the floor. 

When Mr. Fairmont began to recover from his indisposi- 
tion, he seemed kinder to his wife. He did not resume the 
subject of her attendance at church ; but when he was per- 
fectly sober, his wife seated herself by him, and taking his 
hand, talked to him, in a firm, placid way, of her future 
expectations, and concluded by telling him that she wanted 
it perfectly understood, that he was not to interfere with 
her religious exercises. 

“ Whenever you find that it makes me neglect my duties 


118 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


at home, or causes me to be less kind and devoted in all 
things — then you may interfere.” 

He finally agreed to this, and it was mutually understood 
that she was to go to church just when she pleased, and 
where she pleased. 

Fairmont loved his wife ; trusted her implicitly, and so 
truly did he credit her religious feelings, that he sometimes 
almost fancied he saw a halo of glory around her head, 
such as Mary wears in the assembly of the Nativity. 

For the last four years, Mr. Fairmont had quit all busi- 
ness, and spent his whole time in drinking and gambling. 
Sometimes he had money, and spent it lavishly ; then, 
for days and weeks, they were suffering the stings of pov- 
erty. 

It was night, and the rain spattered against the windows, 
shaking the crazy tenement ; and the oft-repeated gusts of 
wind that blew up from North river, swept round the dwell- 
ing in a perfect storm, shaking the loose shingles from 
the roof, and shattering the swinging window-blinds. Mrs. 
Fairmont sat by a small candle-stand, sewing with unabat- 
ing zeal. She was a few years older than her half-sister, 
Mrs. Temple ; slight in figure, and delicate complexion. 
She was pale, and looked fagged with toil. Her auburn 
hair lay in waves on her smooth forehead ; no wrinkles on 
her face to tell of the sorrows within — a jarring temper, 
or a broken heart but patience and hope, faith and love, 
by turns, lent life and beauty to her every feature. She 
worked on. 

“ Almost done, mother dear ?” said her daughter, kneel- 
ing before her on a little stool. 

“Almost, Kate,” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


119 


“ You look so tired, mother ; I wish I could work the 
button-holes. “ Mother, can you sleep while it storms 
so ?” 

“ I mean to try, dear.” 

“ Do you love to hear the rain rattle on the roof?” 

“I used to, when I was a child, and lived at uncle Jef- 
fy’s ; but our roof is too crazy and open. I like to be well 
sheltered in such weather.” 

“ There is a pretty stiff gale,” said a boy who came in 
with a load of broken sticks and barrel-hoops — a small 
bundle of fagots to kindle his morning’s fire. “ See, Kate, 
I have provided, like Abraham, the materials for a fire, 
but where is the lamb ?” 

“ God will provide it, my son,” said the mother. 

“ Is papa gone ?” 

“Long ago.” 

“ And are we to have no supper ! ” 

“ No one needs supper,” replied Kate, twining her arms 
around his neck — “ we had a late dinner.” 

“Yes, and a poor one at that — potatoes and tea.” 

“You must not grumble, my son ; we are better off now 
than a good many other people.” 

“ I should like to see them,” said the boy, “ just to hear 
them say how they feel. Where are they, mother ?” 

“ Oh ! George, almost everywhere in the city ; in the 
streets, alleys, parks — scattered about on the pavements, 
on the docks, in the steam-packets, on the Battery, at the 
Bowery theater, in the hospitals and prisons.” 

“ Mother, you forgot the old Brewery ; but I am hungry, 
mother, very hungry. I deserve to have something to eat ; 

I know I do ?” 


120 


Mrs. Ben Darbt. 


“ Why, brother ?’ ’ 

“ Because I might have helped myself, and nobody would 
ever have been the wiser. Kate, you know old Mrs. Grun- 
dy, down at the corner V 9 

“That keeps a stall, and has pies and apples to sell? 
Oh! yes.” 

“ The same. Just now I was coming by, and she called 
me, and said, ‘ George, come here and watch my table, 
until I go after that man you see standing at the drug- store ; 
he owes me two shillings ; you are an honest boy, and I am 
not afraid to trust you/ But oh ! mother, when I looked 
down on the nice pies, with the red juice peeping out, and 
the crust, seeming as if it was made with a view to make 
the mouth water ; I had to think over my prayer, * lead me 
not into temptation, but deliver me from evil/ The water 
came in my mouth, then in my eyes, and my stomach felt 
as if it had no bottom. I have felt faint and weak ever since.” 

“ There is a can of milk and a roll in the cupboard, 
George ; I put it there for Willy ; but, perhaps, he will 
sleep all night.” 

“He might not, mother; so I will only take half of 
them.” 

“You are right, my son ; never be selfish.” 

“ Selfish, like father ?” 

“ Oh ! George, I did not say that.” 

“ No, mother, you did not ; he tells me that himself every 
hour in the day, in everything he says and does.” 

“Remember, son, ‘ honor thy father and mother/” 

“ I can’t honor him ; it is impossible,” cried the boy, 
earnestly, “you had just as well tell me to love hunger and 
pain, or mortification.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


121 


“ Oh ! George ! ” 

“ A man that has the best wife in the world, and chil- 
dren who are willing to do right, and leaves them to starve 
in poverty and ignorance, must expect to be despised, 
and ” 

“ Hush, brother, ” cried the young girl. “ You must not 
talk thus.” 

“ I will not curse him, but I will speak out. I have borne 
it as long as I can. As to myself, I don't care that, (and 
he snapped his fingers,) no, I don't! I can get along; and 
I will not stay here, idling away my time in waiting on him, 
and getting nothing but curses and kicks ; it don't pay — I 
have had cuffs and hard words long enough ; and if you, 
Kate, will wait on mother, and help her, I will put out, some 
day to seek my fortune.” 

J * Where will you go, brother ?” 

“Wherever Providence leads me. To see father doing as 
he does, is killing ; it will kill me — that and starvation to- 
gether.” 

“ George,” said his mother, faintly, and stillbending over 
the shirt she was making, “ will you leave me ?■” 

“Not long, mother, dear ; and I will send you money to 
buy coffee, which you love so well, and so seldom have ; I 
know I can get work.” 

“I fear bad influences, George.” 

“ Bad influences !” repeated the son. “ I would like to 
know where I could find worse examples than I find some- 
times at home! If my father could not entice me to drink, 
who could ? I want you to understand me, mother — look 
at me.” 

“She hasn't time, brother.” 

11 


122 


Mrs. Ben Darby 


“I am looking, George.” 

“ You love me, mother, I know you do. I am old enough 
to understand affairs. My father will never reform — it is a 
thing impossible ; his treatment to you makes me hate 
him.” 

“I do not hate him, son ; why should you ? — it is sinful.” 

“ Perhaps it is, but I can’t help it. Let me go, mother, 
or my temper will get the better of me, and I may do 
something rash. Do you know, I have often wished I was 
dead ?” 

“ George, you must not talk thus ; it is cruel to me, in- 
deed it is,” and the poor mother brushed away a tear. 

“ I must leave him — the sooner the better, but you shall 
never regret it. I will live for you, to try and recom- 
pense you for all your toil and affection.” 

“ My recompense is with Him, who will bestow it if I 
deserve any her voice was low and faint. She looked 
with a comfortless heart on the honest face of her high- 
minded boy, when she reflected on the improbability of 
his ever deriving any benefit from home, but her feeble in- 
structions, her sympathy, and advice. She sewed on, but 
tears were gathering in her eyes, and sad thoughts stirring 
up the fountain of grief. 

The conversation was interrupted by a heavy step on the 
sill — the slight tap at the door, caused Mrs. Fairmont to 
start. 

“It is not father,” said George, boldly venturing forth 
to answer the call. 

A bright smile rested on every face, as Henry Temple 
entered, and seated himself among them. He was still 
pale and thin, but looking much better than he did when 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


123 


he left the mountains of Virginia. His visits were always 
a special providence to the wants and interests of the 
family. Since he had become acquainted with them, he 
had sought every opportunity to relieve their embarrass- 
ments, and add to their comforts. He found sympathy 
and strength of purpose, in his intercourse with Mrs. Fair- 
mont ; he learned from her example, lessons conducive 
and profitable to his happiness. Her troubles and difficul- 
ties were more appalling than his, yet her serenity of 
mind, and her abiding faith, threw such beautiful rays over 
the clouds which surrounded her, that he almost envied 
her instead of pitying her condition. With her he could 
speak freely of his feelings — his plans ; and could ask her 
counsel, and even her assistance, if necessary. He could 
trust and rely implicitly on her friendship. Since Mrs. 
Fairmont became a Methodist, her sister shunned her; 
they were never congenial, for when an opportunity offered, 
the former was very apt to use her influence in trying to 
urge her to reform. Mrs. Temple, of course, rejected her 
kind suggestions, and as they could not be a comfort to 
each other, they gradually became estranged. When 
Mrs. Fairmont became religious, devotedly pious, Mrs. 
Temple declared she could not, in justice to herself or her 
friends, associate with Jane, now she had made a fool of 
herself, by mingling with low characters, and become so 
enthusiastic as to quit a respectable church, and go where 
there were no pews — sitting with Torn, Dick and Harry , 
and all that sort of thing. Poor Jane ! she had to walk 
her lowly way alone and uncared for, by the world, but 
she never faltered. She knew there was One whose un- 
seen hand led her on ; though the storm darkened and the 


124 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


winds gathered, she drew closer and closer, trusting her all 
to Him who was able to sustain her. 

‘ 4 Jane, you are looking feeble/ ’ said her visitor, “are 
you not w'ell ?” 

“ I feel fatigued — I must be more careful;” she smiled. 

“Mother works too closely,” said Kate. 

“ How can she help it ?” said George. 

“Where is Fairmont ?” asked Mr. Temple. 

“I do not know — somewhere in the city, I suppose — he 
has been away a great part of his time for the last two 
weeks.” 

“ How do you get along, Jane ?” 

“ The best I can — always looking for better days. You 
received my note, which was left during your absence ?” 
asked Mrs. Fairmont. 

“Yes, and a long letter from home, giving me a dis- 
tressing account of the daring adventures of Darby and 
Fairmont. How, how deeply your husband was concerned, 
I cannot tell ; I thought I would see you before I attempted 
a rescue.” 

“I know nothing about their proceedings, only I have 
seen the dear child — Fairmont brought her here on their 
arrival — she remained here while he changed his dress; he 
then took her ” 

“ Where — in the city, I hope ?” 

“Yes, to her mother.” 

“ She is still there !” cried he, springing from his seat — 
“ my own precious child — my all — Oh ! Jane, I have not 
one moment to lose.” 

“ I suppose, Henry, you know that Mary and Darby are 
to be married shortly ?” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


125 


“ Of course — I have thought so for some time. Well, be 
it so — but my child, Jane — I must rescue her. I will re- 
turn in an. hour or so, and let you know how we get on.” 
As Temple left the ‘house, he whispered to George to 
follow him. 

“ Your mother is looking very feeble, George,” said 
he; “ she has been living* I fear, poorly; that must not be; 
take this and have her a comfortable supper — to morrrow I 
will attend to your comforts more fully.” George w r as 
glad to obey, and with a bounding step, he sought his old 
friend, Mrs. Grundy, and was trembling with excitement, 
lest the tempting pies had gone the way of all pies, before 
he could have the felicity of demolishing at least one of 
them. While they were rejoicing over a good supper, 
Temple was rolling down Broadway in an omnibus.” 

He did not know exactly where Mrs. Temple boarded ; 
she had lately changed her residence so frequently, to 
avoid disgrace and exposure, which was rapidly following 
her up, despite of all her precautions. 

He called first at one fashionable hotel then another, until 
almost wearied with anxiety and suspense, he paused at 
the corner of one of the streets entering Broadway, to 
collect his thoughts and compose his agitation. He was 
standing immediately before one of the hotels of high re- 
pute, looking intently on the crowd passing to and fro, 
when he felt some one touch his arm, and turning abruptly, 
he saw a lad who seemed hurried and agitated. It was 
Theodore Harper, but Mr. Temple did not recognize him. 
He was surprised and astonished when he discovered who 
he was, and that he had it in his power to inform him 
of Mrs. Temple’s present abode, and other very startling 


126 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


facts, of which he was ignorant. The opposite hotel, it 
seemed, was in some excitement, at the strange circum- 
stances which had occurred. It appeared from Theodore’s 
statement, that little Elinor had been decoyed away from 
home by some unknown means, and had not been heard 
of for nearly two days. Her mother and friends were in 
great distress and consternation, and were using every 
means to find out her place of concealment, but all to no 
effect. This intelligence was horrible and embarrassing to 
Mr. Temple. He went with Theodore to the house, and 
made a diligent and earnest investigation. Mrs. Temple 
was not at home, but the proprietor of the establishment 
corroborated the account he had just heard, but could give 
him no satisfaction on the subject. Mr. Temple was in one 
of those dilemmas, which seemed to have no outlet. He 
asked question after question, made one suggestion after 
another, to no effect. He finally determined to secure 
Darby, and force him to produce the child, as he could 
prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he had stolen 
her from the asylum where he had placed her. 

He began even to waver in this resolution when he 
ascertained, by further inquiry, that Mr. Darby was totally 
ignorant of Elinor’s place of concealment, and had been, 
and was still actively engaged in using means to find out 
where she was, and those who had beguiled her away. 

Mr. Darby, it seems, from facts gathered from the gossip 
of the hotel, had cast suspicion on Mrs. Temple’s maid; 
but as Hannah Reeves was punctual at her post of duties, 
and had never been missing, nothing could be proved 
against her. She was, it is true, unusually silent, but if 
possible, more nervous and restless than ever — sarcastic 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


127 


and proverbial in the extreme. Her manner, when 
questioned, was such as to silence rather than encourage 
her inquisitors. 

“And is there not enough vagabond thieves in the city, 
that make it their business and calling to steal young-ones ? 
Must it be laid on an honest girl, who has poor brothers 
and sisters enough, suffering for food and raiment, without 
hunting up the rich and the proud ? Let me tell you, Mr. 
Darby, it takes a rogue to catch a rogue — no doubt, you 
will find her — you had better look to yourself — heaven takes 
care of its own” 

“But the child was seen with you last, Hannah,” said 
Mrs. Temple, in great agitation. 

“Who saw her?” asked the girl, looking with dignified 
assurance at her mistress — “ the one that saw her last 
ought to know where she is.” 

“She left the house with you, Hannah,” said Mrs. 
Temple. 

“Well, ma’am, who says she left it with me, the last 
time ? I am sure, ma’am, you can’t say so — for to my best 
knowledge, you have no right even to suppose it, being as 
you could not, for your life, tell a hawk from a hand-saw, 
and am equally certain, that I never left the print of my hand 
on her throat — neither did I kick her or bruise her — neither 

was I ” the last word reached only the ear for which 

it was intended — “so have me up, if you please, ma’am, 
and accuse me of stealing her — do it just as soon as you 
please — I am ready. I should like to go before the court — 
I have my defense ready — ‘ a short horse is soon curried.’ 
I should like to go, ma’am — I think I see myself there 
now — I could soon settle the hash. Stealing the dear 


128 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


child ! as if I did not have trouble enough of my own with- 
out craving other people's.” 

Mrs. Temple and Darby were both actually silenced 
by her vehement and boisterous defense, and she walked 
off with a very innocent face and quite an independent 
air. She had never made her appearance since. 

Mr. Temple, not knowing what to do, proposed to Theo- 
dore to return to Abingdon Lyceum, in order to see Fair- 
mont, hoping to find out some clue by which he might 
secure Darby or recover the child. He preferred accom- 
plishing the latter, if possible, without interfering with his ad- 
versary. As he and Mrs. Temple were on the eve of being 
married, he did not wish to be, in any way, suspected of 
molesting them ; in fact, he did not desire to be mixed up 
in the affair at all. Darby was a person with whom he did 

not feel disposed, under any circumstances, to confer 

all he desired or sought was the recovery of his darling 
Elinor, and he was almost incapable of acting from nervous 
excitement and terrifying suspense. 

Mrs. Fairmont was still sewing, and awaiting anxiously 
the return of her friend, hoping to hear that he had found 
Mrs. Temple and secured his child. 

Scarcely had Mr. Temple finished his exciting facts, 
vrhen a loud noise was heard at the door, as if it had been 
shaken from its hinges — then heavy steps and thumps — 
down went a broken chair, and Fairmont, with his clothes 
wet, his face disfigured and red as an autumn sun, came 
blundering in. He held a bundle in one hand, and his old 
threadbare bandanna pocket-handkerchief dangled corner- 
wise from the other. 

“ Dog on the old, infernal shanty ! Can't you keep the 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


129 


old, bow-legged chairs out of a man’s way ? — or do you 
keep them on purpose to bark a body’s shins? The old, 
rickety things are not fit for a gentleman’s house — so here 
goes !” 

Down went one chair upon another until every unoccu- 
pied one was piled in the center of the room. 

“ Come here, Kate, by golly! you shall cut a swell and 
outshine the best of them. Huzza for Simon Fairmont! 
the favorite of fortune — and, madam, your most humble 
servant to command until death !” 

“ Husband, come sit down and compose yourself — here 
is Harry come to see us.” 

“ Yes, and everybody will be coming to see us noiv, 
Jane. We will show the folks how the generous millionaire 
lives — if we don’t make them stare my name ’s Haines ! 
ha! ha!” He laughed with such hearty good-will, that 
his hearers could scarce refrain from joining in chorus. 
“ I wish I may be screwed up into a cocked hat, if I don’t 
make the aristocracy tremble! We’ll tell them the time 
of day — and no mistake ! hey, George ! Roll yourself out 
and kindle a fire in the stove — stir out and drum up a sup- 
per here, in quick time — a jam-up, regular fancy ball 
doings! — none of your poverty-stricken, wishy-washy, 
cabbage-leaf soup, but genuine crab, scrambled eggs, sau- 
sage and apple dumplings! — and look here, George Wash- 
ington Fairmont, don’t forget the one thing needful,” added 
he, with a mystical turning up of his fist to his mouth. 

George walked off solemnly, as if to perform the orders to 
a letter, but hid himself behind the arm-ohair of his mother. 
Mr. Fairmont swayed up and down the room in a storm 
of excitement, gathering up everything that presented itself 


130 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


to his attention and piled them up in the room where he 
had thrown the chairs. Sometimes he would wink at Mr. 
Temple — snap his finger at Kate — then stop, and gaze very 
lovingly at his wife. 

It was very unusual for him to be so very pleasant, and 
his family were astonished at his humors. His wife begged 
him to sit down and be quiet, for Mr. Temple wished to 
speak to him on some very urgent business. 

He made her no answer, but walked up to the work- 
table, and taking up the work-box and basket pitched them 
to the far end of the room, and snatching the costly piece of 
work out of her hands, which had for weeks stolen the 
health from her cheeks, wadded it up in a knot and holding 
it to the lamp, set it on fire and threw it blazing into the 
fire-place. 

“Jane! — Mrs. Fairmont !” cried the reckless madman, 
gazing wildly on the composed face of his wife, “ no man 
but myself, shall have the benefit of your — of your ser- 
vices — but myself , henceforth and forevermore ! — do you 
hear me — me, madam ? — no man shall wear shirts of your 
manufactory — Temple, you bear witness \” 

“ Fairmont,” said the latter, drawing him to a chair, 
“ for shame — how can you torment Jane so mercilessly ? — 
one so faithful, and so loving, and so just.” 

“ What am I doing ? Only about to relieve her of all 
her troubles, except myself.” 

“ You are acting like a madman .” 

“ I want Jane to understand me ; for the future we must 
take a more elevated stand. No, by golly! Temple, we will 
have no more shifting — no more pinching and eking to 
keep soul and body together ; but you, madam, shall ride 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


131 


in your coacli, and have a pew in Trinity Church ! instead 
of walking in old rubber shoes to that low, nasty chapel on 
Mulberry street.” 

“ Fairmont, for mercy’s sake, tell me what you are mak- 
ing all this to do about ?” 

“ Why, Jenny, my love, your prayers have gone up the 
right way for once !” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Fairmont, do be reasonable.” 

“I never was more so in my life. Jane, I have the 
greatest news to tell ; it will make the hair on your head 
crack like a wagon- whip. Jane, don’t you think, that old 
sea-dog of an uncle of yours, old Jeffy, has died at last, 
and left a million of dollars ! More than half of it is yours ; 
Jane, do you hear me ?” 

“ Oh ! not dear uncle Jeffy ?” cried Mrs. Fairmont, clasp- 
ing her hands.” 

“ Yes, indeed, old uncle Jeffy ; the most precious old 
relative that ever died. Halloo, Jane! don’t go to — to act 
the fool, crying because your uncle has died, and left you 
his heiress — for shame ! you ungrateful baggage !” 

“You never knew him and loved him as I did,” said 
she, quivering with emotion. 

“ I love him now, Jane — I honor him. I tell you what! 
I am going to reform — join the temperance society, and 
settle down, like folks ; and Jane will find out at last that 
she has a jewel of a husband. We will send Kate to Troy, 
and George to West Point, to learn to be a general ; and 
we will walk up and down Broadway every bright day. 
How will that please you? Huzza for Simon Fairmont ! 
They may all go to the devil with their aristocracy. 
Shake hands, Temple; why, man, Mrs. Fairmont is worth 


132 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


a half a million, and you, Temple, are appointed his 
executor." 

“ Fairmont, you are drunk !" 

“ Not as much so as you think. Here, Temple — here 
are the precious documents. Jane, do hush up ; it is all 
gammon to be weeping, because your kind, considerate uncle 
died, and left you rich. I swear ! I could not squeeze out 
a tear if it was for my life. Oh ! Jenny, you are an angel 
in woman's clothing. All right, Temple — you are a kind 
of judge — hey ?" 

“ Yes, Jane, Fairmont is telling you the truth ; here is a 
letter with an account of his death and burial, and a copy 
of his will ; he died at Boston." 

“ Yes, it is all a fact, Jane ; the dear old alligator has 
not remembered me in his last will and testament ; the old 
son of a tinker has not left me one darn cent that I can 
finger, only what Jane pleases to give me ; but Jane is a 
glorious woman !" 

“ Fairmont," said Temple, laying his hand on his shoulder, 
“ you will reform ; you said so just now. Are you in earnest?" 

“I am, by golly, after this week!" 

“ Say this moment, and make your wife happy as well as 
independent." > 

“ No, I will taper off with one grand spree, and then — 
and then, Mrs. Fairmont, I will be yours to command." 

It was some time before Mr. Temple could bring his 
business to a close with Fairmont. The sudden and unex- 
pected good fortune had nearly turned his wits, and it was 
almost impossible to prevail on him to listen to the inquiries 
of Mr. Temple. At last he let out the whole affair. He 
gave him a full account of their adventures, and v r as very 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


133 


careful to lay all the blame on Darby. He, it appears, had 
been hired to assist in the abduction. Mr. Temple could 
not think of prosecuting him on account of his family — not 
that he felt in any degree lenient toward him, but the chil- 
dren would suffer disgrace and humiliation, and they had 
already so many evils and mortifications, that he resolved 
to spare them. His thoughts now turned to Darby ; he 
must seek and push him to extremities. Fairmont offered 
to accompany them. 

They left the house, and Mrs. Fairmont and her chil- 
dren were left again alone — yes, alone, but not friend- 
less or poverty-stricken. She looked for a moment on their 
bright and glowing faces ; the next moment their arms 
were linked about each other’s necks, and silently they 
sank upon their knees, in prayer and thanksgiving to Him, 
who, in the plenitude of his mercy had inclosed them 
around as with a hedge. 

“ Oh ! mother, you will never know the bitterness of pov- 
erty again,” said Kate, wiping the tears from her cheek. 

“ Nor shall I have to leave you, mother, fading and dying 
with penury ; and dear Kate will be educated like a lady.” 

“ And perhaps,” said Kate, in a low whisper, “ it may 
reform Pa.” 

“Never, sister; never !” 

“Hush, my son, let us strive to be humble and patient.” 

“ Just to think, mother, how happy we shall be — never 
to hunger again.” 

“Never to shiver with cold, or blush on account of our 
rags.” 

“No one will dare pity us now,” said George, looking 
the picture of self-esteem, “ they will not point at us, and 


134 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


say , 4 They are nice children; it is a pity their father drinks/ 
or, ‘ George, your beast of a father is in the kennel ; if you 
don’t want the hogs to eat him, you’d better be after rous- 
tering him.’ If he will drink, mother, we will have him 
do it at home ; we will not trouble the watch to bring 
bim in of a night ; we will give him a good, faithful servant 
to watch over him.” 

“ And Oh ! mother, dearest, only to think you will not 
have to sew to buy tea and potatoes,” said Kate, resting 
her flushed cheek on the calm brow of her mother. 

“ Kor earn money for father, for he always tries to get 
all our poor earnings ; but would it not be such unheard-of 
happiness, if fortune could only buy respectability as well 
as food and raiment? Sister! mother ! how willingly would 
we give the last red copper to reform him — how willingly 
would I tread the dark, low vale of poverty and obscurity, 
if I could take my father by the hand, and say, my father , 
the kind husband of my mother. As it is, among the splen- 
dor and affluence to which fortune may bring us, the 
thought that he is what he is — a drunkard — will rankle in 
my heart like a thorn.” 

“ My son ! no more of this, it is wrong ; we must endea- 
vor to be thankful and happy.” 

The mother silently leaned upon the shoulder of the agi- 
tated boy, and Kate kneeled before them. 

Ah ! how the cruel conduct of that reckless devotee of 
intemperance had drawn those hearts together. The mo- 
ther, like a tutelar angel, had warded off the influence of 
his evil course, and by her example of resignation and her 
precepts of virtue and forbearance, had led them on, thus 
far, unscathed. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


135 


There are many such martyrs in this world, wearing out 
by piecemeal on the thorny rugged path that intemperance 
marks out for its victims. The husband drinks on, and for- 
gets his duties and his sorrows ; but she , who lingers on 
with him in defiance of all, toils and suffers until her brain 
is racked, and her heart weary and faint. But there is One 
who marks every sigh — who sees every tear that falls, and 
in the day He comes to make up his jewels, she will be 
found by the angel of the covenant, and placed in the 
crown of the king of glory. 

When Mr. Temple left the house in Abingdon-square, 
he dispatched Fairmont, with two police officers, in search 
of Darby. 

They returned with information that no intelligence had 
been received of the child, and that Mrs. Temple had left 
her boarding-house that morning, and had departed with 
her baggage as for a long journey, having been but a few 
moments united in the holy bands of matrimony to her 
cousin. They were, therefore, together. 

Suspicion had at first fallen upon Hannah Reeves, but as 
she so stoutly denied all participation in the affair, and 
seemed ready to baffle the assertions, by making some very 
embarrassing statements in regard to the treatment which 
the little girl had received from her mother, it made it on the 
part of the lady, very hazardous, and crippled the efforts 
made to discover the child. 

Mr. Temple, as a last, and almost hopeless effort, deter- 
mined to see the girl, and have a full investigation of the 
matter as far as she was concerned. 

With a view to this he made inquiries as to the character 
and general conduct of the girl. She bore a good name in 


136 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


the hotel where she had been employed. All who knew 
her gave her a character free from taint of any kind. Her 
father was very intemperate — the family miserably poor 
and wretched, both in a moral and physical position. Han- 
nah, and her eldest brother, who was her junior, kept the 
family from utter starvation by their industry and steady 
adherence to honesty and propriety. The father had be- 
come so worthless that he could scarcely earn means 
enough to supply the mother and himself with rum. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


137 


Chapter 12. 

How use doth breed a habit in a man. — S hakspeare. 

In an alley opening into Leonard street, stood a low, 
dark, crazy tenement. The windows were not only desti- 
tute of glass, but the sashes were broken and disjointed, 
the doors were dislodged from their hinges, and propped up 
with half-burned planks. The sills had all rotted away, 
and stones and oyster-shells filled up the chasm between 
the floor and the entrance. The roof was shattered, and 
trembled on its decayed rafters, worm-eaten, and “ mossed 
with age,” and crusted with the soot and smoke of years. 
All around the miserable doorway was filth, and all within 
was penury and want — the most revolting degradation. 
The scaled and battered walls, smeared and begrimed 
floors, the tottering partition, the caved hearth, filled with 
all kinds of offal, told a tale of human suffering, human 
frailty, and brutal association. 

A faint light issued from the half-closed door. This 
was the abode of John Reeves, the father of Hannah. The 
family occupied the lower room, an old rickety bedstead, 
the long posts of which nearly crossed each other, at the 
top, occupied one corner of the room, with coverings which 
no human ingenuity could describe, from casual observa- 
tion. Part of a quilt of the ancient, but well remembered 
combination, styled ‘nine patch/ hung down at the foot, to 

conceal the squalid nest beneath, composed of rags, shav- 

12 


138 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


ings, and old newspapers, worked into the consistency of 
half-dried paste. A broken stove, yellow with rust, its 
doors all gone or burned out, stood nearly in the middle 
of the floor, and was covered with ashes and grease. A 
few chairs, all crippled, or uneasily resting on dislocated 
members ; a wheelbarrow without a back, and only one 
leg, was propped up in one corner, to serve as a cradle. 
It was the only utensil of industry which remained as a 
relic of other days. An old greasy table, completed the 
inventory of household movables. 

A woman about forty years of age, with purple lips and 
maudlin eyes, loathsome and disagreeable in the extreme, 
sat rocking a wailing diseased infant to and fro, with a 
violence and petulance, ill adapted to its strength and 
frame, and which seemed to have no soothing in its ad- 
ministration, if one might judge from its aggravated cries. 
Several ragged boys and girls were squatted about the bed, 
amazed and bewildered by the figures which filled up the 
doorway. 

“ Does John Beeves live here ?” asked Mr. Temple, ad- 
dressing the woman, who appeared unconscious of his 
presence. 

“ He takes his grub here, when he can git it,” replied 
the woman gruffly, “but it ain’t often he gits any.” 

“ Where is he ?” asked Mr. Temple. 

“ You don’t expect me to answer that question — you 
can’t be so onreasonable — that is, if so be you know him 
and his ways — I never knows where he is, unless he is 
drunk and at home — I never goes to look after him — it 
ain’t to be expected.” 

“ He drinks hard, hey?” asked Fairmont. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


139 


“ An’ lie does that very thing." 

“ That is a bad business — it is well you keep sober, Mrs. 
Beeves, in order to take care of the children." 

“Keep sober !" cried she, tossing her baby up in her 
arms, and shaking it nearly breathless to keep it from 
screaming to the ‘ top of its bent,' “ and who says to the 
contrary ? I should like for them to tell me so to my face — 
I am a decent woman, sir, and should like to know what 
the men folks are after here — I am sure we troubles no 
one." 

“You have a daughter who lives out — is she at home, 
or has she found a new situation ?" 

“ No, she just went out to hunt up something to eat ; 
for it is very little that John Beeves brings into this house 
but rum and black looks." 

“ So the girl is kind and good ?" asked Temple. 

“The best sort — if it was not for her and Charley, I 
don't know where I should have been by this time." 

“ May be in heaven," said Fairmont, “ who knows ?" 

“And why not ? I am sure I have as good a right as 
any one," replied Mrs. Beeves, loudly. 

“ I beg pardon — I am sure I have no objection, provided 
you leave your ill-manners behind." 

“ Fairmont, be quiet," said Temple, “ and don't pro- 
voke her. Mrs. Beeves," continued he, addressing the 
irritated woman, “ I have some business with your daugh- 
ter, and " 

“I am here," cried Hannah, hastily entering, and placing 
a loaf of bread and a pitcher of milk on the table, “to 
answer for myself — what is the fracas now ?" 


140 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ I have come to see, if you know anything about the 
removal of Elinor Temple V ’ 

“ And you come again, to taunt me about the child — 
stealing a child !” cried she, fiercely tearing the children one 
by one from the food, which she had placed on the table, 
which they gathered about like so many starved rats. “ I 
said again and again, that I have not stolen her — may -be 
you would like to search — well do it, and welcome. Don’t 
you see I have enough trouble, without loading me down ? 
and even if I did know where she is, what of it ? I would 
die before I would tell. And as for you, Mr. Fairmont, 
you will not get her again, I can tell you — you stole her 
once from her dear blessed home, and brought her to be 
buffeted and kicked about by an inhuman mother. Why, 
Theodore, what are you after ? bless me ! I did not know 
you — here, take this chair — I am so glad to see you.” 

“ Never mind sitting down, Hannah, I have not time — 
this is Elinor’s father, Hannah — he has come here, in hopes 
of hearing some news of poor little Miss Temple — he is 
nearly dead with anxiety and suspense.” 

“ Her father — her own father ?” 

“ Yes, you may be sure.” 

“ You are sure ?” 

“ Elinor would tell you it is he — where is she Hannah, 
do you know ?” 

“ Oh yes, I know well enough — and if this is her father, 
circumstances alter cases — I did not steal your child, sir — 
I never dreamed of it — but I put herein a safe place, be- 
cause they tried to bribe me to decoy her off, so that Mr. 
Fairmont there, could not take her from her mother, as he 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


141 


had threatened to do. I am so glad, sir, that you have 
come at last to see her, and take her away. Send those 
men away, and I will go with you to her lodgings.” 

Fairmont and the officers left the house and awaited 
their return at the corner of the street. Hannah lighted a 
small lamp and requested Mr. Temple and Theodore to 
follow her. She passed through the hack door and crossed a 
narrow, dirty yard, whose noxious effluvia was not only 
sickening to the senses, but appalling to the mind. Mr. 
Temple shuddered when he thought of his child being 
daily exposed to such an atmosphere, and trembling with 
fatigue and anxiety, he followed the girl up a narrow, tot- 
tering stairway, which was propped by slender pieces of 
rotten scantling. 

Hannah passed up first and held the light below, as the 
rest mounted alternately. As Hannah entered the room, 
she was greeted by a voice whose every tone fell like life 
and balm upon the feelings of the anxious father. The 
next moment his child was folded in his arms, and for a 
time, all his sorrows were forgotten. 

Mr. Temple found himself in a small room, but as neat 
as wax — a nice bed with a white covering and fringed 
curtains — a polished table in the center of the room, 
with a bright lamp — a few books of genteel appear- 
ance, and a sweet fresh, bouquet in a large tumbler, were 
the first objects which he noticed, after he had embraced 
his child. The change from filth and pollution to purity 
was so sudden and unleoked-for, that the contrast was 
irresistible. 

“ How nice Mrs. Martin keeps everything!” said Han- 
nah to Theodore ; “ ‘cleanliness is the handmaid of virtue.’ 


142 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Then turning to Elinor, she said: “ Where is Aunty Martin, 
dear?” 

“ She is gone to Canal-street to buy some buttons for a 
vest.” 

Things became gradually quiet, and Hannah informed 
Mr, Temple of the proceedings of Mrs. Temple, since the 
arrival of Elinor, and the conduct of Darby during the last 
days that she spent in the hotel. Mr. Darby had, it 
appeared from Hannah’s statement, tried to bribe her to 
decoy the child away and meet him with her on the Bat- 
tery, where he would come prepared to take charge of her. 
The reason he gave was this — Fairmont had threatened to 
take her back to her father, in order to force Darby to pay 
him for his assistance in bringing her to the city. He was 
determined to make them fulfill their contract, which 
Darby was equally disposed to overlook. Hannah had 
been offered a very tempting reward to do as she had been 
requested, but her principles were too sterling to bend to 
the designs of others, and although nothing but a poor, 
insignificant servant, she had a noble heart. She had 
penetration, too, enough to discover that something was in 
agitation, she could not tell exactly what, but fearing it 
might result in evil to Elinor, she resolved to put her out 
of their reach. As her resources were limited and her 
acquaintances restricted to a certain class, she was com- 
pelled to do the best she could under the circumstances. 
Darby was very desirous that the child should be brought 
away without Mrs. Temple’s knowledge. Hannah deter- 
mined that she would outwit them all. She listened with 
patience to Mr. Darby’s arrangements, but did not acqui- 
esce. She asked a good many questions, but before there 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


143 


was an understanding between them, Mrs. Temple rang 
her bell and Hannah readily obeyed the summons, glad of 
an excuse to leave matters uncompromised. That after- 
noon she took Elinor to Mrs. Martin’s. 

“ Who is Mrs. Martin ?” asked Mr. Temple. 

“ Oh, sir ! don’t you remember the lady that nursed Miss 
Elinor, when she was a baby?” 

“ Yes, she was a very young widow.” 

“And is again one,” said Hannah ; “ both her husbands 
killed themselves with rum. She has been in the habit of 
sewing for Mrs. Temple — that is the way we became 
acquainted. She has lived here a good while, in perfect 
retirement. She is a very excellent person, and I knew 
you would be willing to pay Miss Elinor’s board, as Mrs. 
Martin is quite poor and depends on her labor for her 
support.” 

Mrs. Martin returned, and matters were soon arranged 
for the removal of Elinor, who had listened as if in a trance 
to all that had been said and done — one hand in her 
father’s, the other clasped by Theodore. She was the liv- 
ing picture of trust and fond reliance. 

Mrs. Martin received ample remuneration for the trou- 
ble and care she had bestowed on her young boarder. 
Hannah tied on her little blue bonnet and mantle ; Mrs. 
Martin smoothed the wrinkles from her black silk apron 
and kissed “her dear, little face,” as she called it. 

Her friends both promised to visit her in a few days, 
and she soon found herself in an omnibus on her way to 
her father’s residence. 

“ Where is Theodore, papa?” asked Elinor, as she found 
herself on the pavement — “ Theodore ! Theodore !” 


144 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“I certainly thought he was with us — I meant he should 
return home with us. Well, well, we will see him in the 
morning — he is a noble little fellow and must be taken 
care of — he will make a man some of these days.” 

“ Yes, papa, he is so good !” 

“ Well, love, wa will have him home with us, in the 
morning,” and Mr. Temple led his little daughter up the 
marble steps of his stately mansion. 

Elinor was soon asleep in her father’s house ; the assur- 
ance of having Theodore always with her at her own 
home, made her almost forget the huge shadow that lay 
across the threshold — a drunken mother ! Pause, thou 
votary of the bottle ! the cup in thy hand holds the tears 
of the innocent and the curses of thy own conscience ! 
Dash it down ! trample it beneath thy feet ! Earth has no 
greater evil, nor life a more damning malediction ! 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


1*5 


Chapter 13. 

Weep not for those whom the vail of the tomb, 

In life’s happy morning hath hid from our eyes, 

Ere sin threw a blight o’er the spirit’s young bloom, 

Or earth hath profaned what was born for the skies. — M oore. 

The civilized world assents to the fact that intemperance 
is a curse upon society — that the habitual drunkard is a 
clog upon social life. Like the upas, he stands alone, and 
all who venture within his atmosphere are blighted — 
withered, and accursed. The dark and unholy path of the 
destroyer is studded with monuments of human ruin, whose 
pinnacles are too high, and epitaphs too emblazoned, to 
evade even the eye of the sensualist, recording the terrify- 
ing history of those who moulder beneath ; over whose sad 
graves, fathers, mothers, brothers and children ever pour 
the sweet and bitter memories of undying affection upon 
the crumbling ruins of beloved hearts, which they had 
made their household altars, andupon them had offered up 
the myrrh and frankincense of a holy sacrifice. And on 
these gloomy mounds of human devastation and self-destruc- 
tion does Genius crape her brow, for a bright, aspiring son, 
struck down in his proud career — as the heaven-winged 
eaglet, when he sweeps too near the earth, falls by the 
fiery missile of the fowler. 

In every part of the globe exists this melancholy expe- 
rience ; and on every spot of earth is this record spread 

wide open for the perusal and admonition of all. Surely, 

13 


146 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


then, no new appeal or argument can be expected from any 
quarter in behalf of the temperance cause ; its advocates 
are everywhere — their efforts and struggles have, in a mea- 
sure, improved the moral condition of every vineyard. Its 
champions in every battle-field have waged war with all 
the weapons that the powers of human reason could 
wield. The soul of man is endowed with attributes of am- 
ple dignity for the control and adornment of his physical 
conformation. His Maker has ordained that his mind, in 
its essence, is an exhalation of His own imperishable, all- 
pervading intelligence. It follows reason, then, that all 
the higher qualities of every man, though he may be 
pinched by^penury, or clad in tatters, are a part of God 
himself. 

In the economy of nature He has also offered fit food 
for this deathless principle. It is the proud privilege of his 
immortality to study the wants, the rights, the spirits and 
passions of men ; to facilitate their enjoyments — the exer- 
cise and restraint of each. Over these wants, these impa- 
tient and cherished rights — over the swelling spirits — over 
these burning , bounding passions of men, this mind may 
erect an empire invisible, save only in its effects, which 
shall restrain to obedience the erring, the unwarranted 
assumptions and oppressions of the mightiest of fellow- 
beings. To this influence of mind over mind — of feeling 
over feeling , is assigned the task of relieving poignant suffer- 
ings ; of elevating the degraded to .the level of self-respect 
and respectable association — of creating in communities a 
moral tone, which shall reflect from the mirror of society the 
image of the Gospel; of informing and moulding the rising ge- 
neration into a mighty, virtuous posterity. This power and 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


147 


influence is the effect of various means : from example, 
present sympathy — from contact, through the senses, and 
often by familiarity, with the evil or the pure. One-half of 
our susceptibilities are blunted by the very force of the con- 
stant recurrence of revolting scenes. I could here branch 
off into speculations upon reformation to support or refute 
the opinion, “ that no human being can be thoroughly 
reformed except through the channel of an enlightened con- 
science ; that the revolting spectacle and consequences of 
intoxication are results of the same principle, which produce 
all other moral extravagances, and should be corrected, as 
are all other excesses to which they are allied ; that he 
who staggers beneath the torpidity of alcohol is not the only 
drunkard ; that it is the operation of this same appetite 
for excitement that induces the young lady to sacrifice her 
family-comfort and domestic duties to the piano, or the deep 
and seducing intensities of light literature ; and which too 
often brings upon her youth, beauty and prime, the dark 
shadow of death even amid the festivities of mirth. Upon 
this principle the coquette murders hearts — the libertine 
ruins the virtuous — the innocent ; the frivolous and fashion- 
able mother lets her infant sicken and die — a victim to the 
mummeries of dress and show ; the young glutton lays up 
a life of gout or dyspepsia, or dies of apoplexy. 

These are points ripe for discussion, but come not within 
the compass of my design, as I am not making a temperance 
speech, but relating facts connected with the subject, and 
the opinions and views of others. 

Mr. Temple awoke next morning refreshed in body and 
mind. His thoughts turned from the recovery of his daugh- 
ter to those connected with it. The horrid situation of the 


148 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Beeves family pressed with force upon his mind, and he 
arose with a determination to endeavor to work a reforma- 
tion in the moral condition of the household — to secure 
Hannah as a trusty attendant and friend for his daughter, 
and to place Theodore Harper in a respectable and lucra- 
tive position. 

How to ensure a lasting reform was the first ques- 
tion that presented itself : by elevating them to their for- 
mer position in society — and by removing the obstacles and 
difficulties under which they labored, place them in circum- 
stances conducive to a perfect restoration of health, respecta- 
bility and self-esteem. Without encouragement and assist- 
ance, the jeopardized powers of moral rectitude are hard to 
re-establish. We are dependent creatures at best ; we need 
the smile of approval — the stimulus of the friendly grip — 
the proximity of mind to mind, to keep us in the onward 
path of virtue and forbearance. Who could expect a fel- 
low-being to retrace the way of duty and integrity of pur- 
pose, when he sees on every hand his former friends and 
neighbors shunning him, as if followed by the plague-spot; 
wrapping themselves in the mantle of infallible rectitude, 
and looking down upon the penitent, as if he was one whom 
the rules of society placed in another orbit ? 

Under such a state of affairs, how can the drunkard be 
expected to reform? What would he accomplish by a 
regenerated nature ? He could not regain the confidence of 
his fellow-man. If it were not for the prize at the end of 
the race, the hope that reaches beyond this life, and 
brightens up this vale of sorrow and death, the wanderer 
from virtue would have but feeble encouragement to for- 
sake the error of his ways. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


149 


Mr. Temple was a Son of Temperance ; lie did not waste 
liis time in idle discussions, but went to work with the spirit 
and the understanding. 

The Temperance society offers a beautiful example to the 
world. It not only preaches the doctrine of reformation, 
but meets its converts half way. The hand of fellowship 
is offered ; they are supported and elevated by the social 
virtues of the order — sustained and embraced by the 
cheering thought of E 'pluribus unum. It brings into prac- 
tice those divine attributes which draw man to the likeness 
of his Maker ; wisdom, firmness, unflinching perseverance, 
kindness, order, method, and skill The internal power of 
the subject appeals to the conscience and experience of man. 
It is not the creature of force or love, but the great and 
irresistible operation of moral suasion, opening an avenue of 
intercourse and encouragement ; assisting those who may 
need it, to a reasonable degree, in the efforts to acquire a 
competency. It does not hold out a premium to vice or a 
reward for virtue to its votaries ; but declares, by its plain 
and honest dealing with the children of men, that it is the 
duty of every individual to be virtuous, and that no man 
should feel that he has a right to be paid to become respect- 
able beyond the reward which merit always expects from 
the hands of society. What a fine platform on which he 
can re-establish his impaired character — regain his lost 
Eden. He here finds every inducement to reform ; by de- 
grees, he recovers his former position in society, and the 
confidence and respect of his friends. May I not here re- 
mark, how very partial the conventionalities of society are 
to the interest and well-being of man? If a woman de- 
parts from the straight path of rectitude and prudence. 


150 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


every eye marks the deviation, and every tongue condemns; 
no excuse or extenuation. If she falls, she falls forever. 
No one lifts up her bowed head — no hand wipes away the 
penitential tear, or reaches out, in the dark, to guide her 
weak and erring steps. No one pities her, or seconds her 
efforts to reform; and even if she does reform, she is shunned 
and despised. No eye compassionates her, but the eye of 
Him who died upon the cross. There is for her no “ Tem- 
ple of Honor,” wherein she can redeem her standing. She 
feels not the power of human sympathy, which falls upon 
the heart like the evening and the morning dew, fertilizing 
the feeble efforts of nature to put forth blossoms of hope 
and grace. Jesus alone is her friend ; he binds up her 
broken heart ; chases the tears from her withered cheek, 
and whispers in the still, small voice, “ Daughter, be of 
good cheer ; thy sins are forgiven thee ; go in peace.” 


“ Thou who hast slept in error’s sleep, 
Oh ! would’st thou wake in Heaven ? 
Like Mary kneel — like Mary weep, 
Love much, and be forgiven.” 


Mr. Temple was a Son of Temperance ; and I will try to 
show you how he found his way to the heart of an habitual 
drunkard. 

The shadows of evening were gathering over the city, 
when he bent his steps toward Leonard street. He found 
no one within the wretched domicil but the captious Mrs. 
Beeves, who had been indulging in liquor pretty freely. 
She entertained her visitor with murmurs and complaints. 
He gleaned, from her hasty and broken narrative, a few 
facts which gave him a better idea of their present situa- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


151 


tion. He discovered that they had seen better days — that 
loss of wealth came first — then sickness — diminution of 
friends — lastly, penury and degradation. 

To remove the latter, was the first consideration, and 
while Mr. Temple was making up his mind on the 
point, he was interrupted by a very boisterous movement 
at the door. In a moment, a crowd of «boys and ruf- 
fians pressed against the house ; loud cries were heard for 
the crowd to give way. Cursing, swearing, pushing and 
tearing, they bore everything before them. At last, an 
officer succeeded in making a wav for two laboring* men, 
bearing on a broad plank, the body of a lad, covered with 
blood and dirt. Ho one offered assistance. Mr. Temple 
looked inquiringly at Mrs. Beeves, but she seemed stu- 
pefied. 

“ Is John Beeves's wife here V 9 asked one of the men, as 
he rested their burden on two broken chairs. 

“ Yes !" screamed the woman, “ what have you there ? — 
what do you come here for ? In heaven's name, what 
does it mean ?" 

“ Mother ! mother !" cried Hannah springing forward 
through the doorway, “it is Charley — our own dear Char- 
ley, mother — it is Charley ! Charley ! and he is — mother — 
he is dead I" 

“Dead!" screamed th,e frantic woman, “ Oh ! no, he is 
not dead — it can’t be ; what, Charley ! my own darling, 
beautiful boy," and she laid her screaming infant on the 
bed, and staggered toward the body, which was resting on 
two chairs in horrible ghastliness. 

“He is dead, mother — he was killed by " 


152 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ By what ? Oh ! my God ! — say, by what ?” 

“ A stone — and it was to save his drunken father — yes, 
mother — do you hear? — a drunken father !” 

“ Killed l” repeated the mother, and fell senseless by the 
side of her son. 

Screams of horror and anguish filled the miserable 
apartment. 

The body of the youth was laid out, and some of the 
neighbors brought a clean sheet to lay him on ; another 
combed out his sun-burnt hair, and w r ashed off the clots of 
blood from his neck and face. Another brought a pillow, 
with a clean case. So his young limbs w r ere straightened 
out, and his stiff, cold features, in death’s repose, lay in 
decent, but poverty-stricken order. 

But what had the son of an habitual drunkard to expect ? 
Kothinsf in this life, but buffets and scornful sneers, or the 
cold pity of the world, (between the two there is not much 
difference). Young and gentle in his nature — loving 
and kind to all ; with honest principles ; religiously dis- 
posed ; shunning wicked company, and striving, with his 
sister, to support his family — at least, to keep them from 
starvation, and reform his parents ; he was suddenly cut 
off — snatched away from his good purposes. Why was 
this done ? Who could tell ? It was one of the inscru- 
table decrees of a mysterious but never-erring Providence. 

While they were all gathered around his bier, weeping 
the unrestrained tears of natural sorrow, the poor degraded 
father came staggering and stumbling, and jostling those 
in his way, along through the crowd. 

“ Can’t you come out and let a body come? What’s the 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


153 


use of having a home, if a man can’t get in it, hey ? Can’t 
ye come out ?” 

“ How did this happen?” asked Mr. Temple of one of 
the bystanders. 

“His father had fallen down into the cellar of a house, that 
was repairing, on Grand street; the walls were tumbling in, 
and he ran down to extricate his father ; he succeeded in 
getting the poor intoxicated wretch out, but he would not 
leave the spot, until Charley went back for his old straw 
hat, which he had dropped off in his fall. The kind, and 
even obedient son was returning with it, when a large stone 
fell upon his shoulder, and crushed him. The father was 
so drunk, that he did not understand or comprehend the 
nature of the awful catastrophe.” 

His appearance was revolting in the extreme ; his ragged 
clothes were covered with the rubbish and filth, which he 
had gathered in his fall; his shaggy hair hung in stringsTJver 
his hagfo’ard countenance; his beard had not been shaven for 
days ; his red flannel shirt had changed its original hue, to 
an invisible purple ; his stained, and faded corduroy pants, 
had no notion of an upright position, without being 
coaxed by an old leathern belt. He stood in the middle 
of the room, with his hat in both hands, holding it as light 
and careful, as if it was composed of spun glass, and lined 
with cobwebs ; he looked wildly around, but seemed entirely 
unconscious of what had occurred. 

“Father! father!” cried Hannah, “ see, here is poor 
Charley. Oh ! I always knew it would end in something 
dreadful — father, do you hear? poor, dear Charley is dead, 
father — dead — our own darling Charley.” 


154 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ But I guess he zaved the hat,” replied the old toper, 
holding it up in both hands, and grinning like an idiot. 

“ Oh ! father ! have you no heart — no soul — Oh ! my 
poor brothers and sisters — Oh ! sweet, darling Charley — 
dead — dead!” The poor girl gave way to a fresh parox- 
ysm of frantic grief, but the father walked doggedly away 
from the body of his dead son, and seated himself on the 
bedside, still holding his hat with caressing pains. 

As Mr. Temple looked on, he felt almost discouraged in 
his good resolves — but perseverance was one of the virtues 
of the Order ; he determined not to retire from the work, 
without at least making all the efforts within his pow r er. 
In the first place, they were provided with food and rai- 
ment. He then procured a plain, decent coffin for the 
dead. 

The next day, when he visited Leonard street, he found 
everything different. The young corpse lay in a black 
coffin, and a crowd of the poorer class of people had as- 
sembled, as much from curiosity as sympathy or good feel- 
ing. They were talking, whistling, and moving to and fro, 
as if death and sorrow had no hold upon human sympathy. 
The father and mother were both smartened up in the 
new garments, which the benevolence of Mr. Temple had 
provided for them. Hannah had washed and fixed up the 
poor, sickly, debilitated children, who were selfish enough 
to express their joy and delight, at having bread to eat, 
and clean things to put on ; little recked they of the magni- 
tude of the catastrophe, which had led to such unlooked- 
for good fortune. 

“ Charley will never want to eat again, will he, Han- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


155 


nali?” asked Sammy, with tears in his eyes, but a faint 
smile on his lips. 

“ Why do you ask such a question?” answered his sister, 
shuddering. 

“ ’Cause, we will have his share of grub; that’s ’cause 
why.” 

Poor Hannah wiped the tears from her cheek, and 
silently went about arranging matters for the burial of her 
brother. 

Mr. Temple found the father perfectly sobered by his 
awful situation ; he was not only deeply affected at the sad 
death of his son, but was suffering all the tortures which con- 
trition, and remorse could inflict. He felt sensibly, that he 
had been the cause of his son’s destruction — the immediate 
cause of his death ; the thought was almost too intolerable 
to be borne — the Very wormwood and gall of bitterness. 
It was a mental aggravation that could know no palliative; 
it would weigh upon the heart, as long as life should last — 
a souvenir of sin. Even if he could reform, and lead a 
new life, he knew and felt, that the present wound would 
rankle in his soul, as long as “ memory, the warden of the 
brain,” held its office. 

“ Sir, you are very kind,” said the agonized father, as 
Temple offered him his hand ; he tried hard not to see it, 
but his visitor was determined he should shake hands with 
him; “ you have been kind — monstrous kind,” repeated 
Reeves, trying to conceal the tears which were falling fast. 
“ It has been a long time since I heard soft words from a 
gentleman like you.” 

“ I expect, Mr. Reeves, that was somewhat your own 
fault.” 


156 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Somewhat, as you say ; but, sir, this has been a hard 
world to me — it has too.” 

“It is a beautiful world, Mr. Beeves, and full of bless- 
ings.” 

“ And curses too — I know it,” replied Beeves, looking 
around him with a bitter smile. 

“I likewise, my friend — but do we not bring those curses 
sometimes on ourselves, by disobedience and willfulness — 
by neglecting the duties Providence has assigned us — liv- 
ing without regard to our present or future welfare ?” 

“Oh! sir, you speak truly,” said Beeves, pressing his 
rough hands together and looking wildly at the gloomy 
coffin which contained the body of his son. “It is dread- 
ful to think of it! Don't talk of it.” 

“We must speak of it,” said Temple, laying his hand 
on his shoulder — “ it is for your good.” 

“ I can’t bear it — no, I can’t.” 

“ If you had been stabbed near the region of the heart, 
and a physician were to stand by and witness your writhing 
agonies, would you not call him heartless if he did not offer 
to extract the festering steel?” 

“ Sir, it is worse than that — it is in my heart deep, 
deep — no hand can reach it.” 

“ You are a man — you will let me try?” 

“ I am not, sir — I am a brute unworthy of your notice. 
I am vile. I am the murderer of my own son, my beloved, 
darling son !” 

“Oh! Charley!” cried the mother, throwing herself back 
on the chair — “ we did not know how dear you were !” 

“No, sir, we have been blind.” 

“ Your eyes are now opened,” said Mr. Temple. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


157 


“ I see it all — I wish, sir, the cursed stone had fallen on 
my head.” 

“ That is wrong. There is a wise and just Providence, 
who orders all things for the best.” 

“It can't be for the best — I know it can't !” screamed 
the mother. “You need not preach that doctrine — there 
is no best in it! I know there isn't!” 

“Be still, mother,” said Hannah, soothingly. “Listen!” 

“ That boy, sir, was our support. I have been a very 
wicked father !” 

“ God forgive ye !” said the mother. 

“I hope, Mr. Beeves, this will be the means of reform- 
ing you— you must quit drinking. It is no use to be nice 
about words. You and your wife have led a horrible life — 
your children are perishing for food, and their souls are 
starving for moral instruction. What do you suppose will 
be the end of all this ? Destruction to yourselves and to 
your children !” 

“ Poor Charley is the first,” said Hannah, wringing her 
hands. 

“ If I had only been sober, yesterday, this never would 
have happened — it couldn't.” 

“ In course it couldn’t,” said Mrs. Beeves. 

“ How long have you been drinking?” asked the Son of 
Temperance. 

“ I have not drawn a sober breath for years — that is to 
say, I have never been without the scent of it on my 
breath. Don’t tell me I could reform and become sober! 
Don’t talk to me about signing the pledge — if I was to, I 
should break it.” 

“ You can reform — and now is the time to commence. It 


153 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


is true, you cannot undo what you have done — you cannot 
restore the beloved form of your son to life, but all the 
other evils can be remedied — the other six children can be 
snatched from ruin and disgrace. Your wife will be 
rescued, perhaps, from perdition. Are you a man ? Can 
you hesitate ?” 

“ Oh ! sir, show me the way, and if there is enough of 
manhood in me, I will try. I will, sir, indeed I will. 
Help me, sir, I am weak and vile !” and the tears fell plen- 
teously from his eyes. 

“ See here,” said Temple, drawing the white covering 
from the cold, clammy face of the dead boy; “ this is your 
son — your dead son. God gave him to you, and God has 
taken him away. You loved him?” 

“As well as a drunkard could love,” replied Reeves ; 
“but that’s little — now I know how little — not so well as 
the bottle. I have loved nothing but rum, for years.” 

“That’s the truth, John Reeves,” said his wife — “if 
ever you told it.” 

“ But I never thought it would come to this — this. Oh ! 
my poor boy ! what a wretch I am !” 

Temple took the hand of Reeves and laid it on the cold, 
silent heart of the son. “ Here, in this solemn place, swear 
that you will never take alcohol again in any form or for 
any purpose ; here, under the shadow of the dead and in 
presence of your Maker 1” 

“Oh! sir, I cannot!” cried the trembling father, draw- 
ing his hand suddenly back ; “I should break that oath 
and dishonor the dead. I can’t do it.” 

“ If you are sincere in your profession of sorrow and 
penitence, you cannot object to anything that will support 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


159 


and sustain you in that resolution. If you are not in ear- 
nest, forbear !” 

“I am in earnest — I will! I will! and I here pledge 
myself before my wife and children, and in presence of my 
dead son — Oh ! Charley ! bear witness for your miserable 
father — never to touch the accursed stuff again. So help 
me God!” 

“ Mother! mother!” cried Hannah; “do you hear my 
father? — do you hear him?” 

“Yes, I hear him. I have heard John Beeves talk 
before.” 

“ Gan you hear him and be still, mother? have you no 
promise to make? — is he the only rum drinker in the t 
house?” 

“It is easy talking — I want to see him do what he has 
said he would.” 

“Oh, mother! will you not give a promise to Charley? 
He has died to save you from a bitter curse !” 

“Well,” replied the wife, drawing herself up; “I’ll 
promise never to drink another drop, as long as Beeves 
keeps sober; but if he is at it again, why I’ll go halves. 

I was a sober woman until he brought the truck in the 
house.” 

“ I know, I did it all — I never blamed you, Sally.” 

“ How could you ? You learned me how. I never 
tasted rum, in my life, till you began the game ; but I 
won’t stand in your road, John ; you shan’t have it to 
say— no, you shan’t ” 

“You have been just as much to blame as Beeves,” 
said Temple to the wife; “perhaps more so. If he does 
wrong, it is no reason you should ; and if he rendered him- 


1G0 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


self unfit for the duties of a father, it was more incumbent 
on you to double your diligence as a mother.’ ’ 

“ The men always take up for the men — it is mighty easy 
preaching, but I guess, sir, if you straighten the kinks out 
of John Reeves, you won’t find any hinderance from Sally.” 

“ Hush, mother !” said Hannah, “ here comes a minister 
to pray with us and bury Charley.” 

A new burst of sorrow filled the little room, and after 
the elapse of a half hour the hearse and two hacks left for 
the burial of the dead. 

Mr. Temple watched faithfully over his converts. He 
judged from the first that the husband was sincere and res- 
olute in his efforts to reform. A few evenings after, at a 
meeting of the Temperance Society, the name of John 
Reeves was presented as a candidate for admission to the 
order. He was sustained and countenanced by the bro- 
therhood. He got as much work as he could do, and as soon 
as Temple was perfectly satisfied that he would not relapse, 
he gave him the refusal of a small farm, which lay on the 
Hudson river, a short distance from the city. He and his 
family were delighted with the prospect of a country life, 
and readily embraced the offer. In a short time they were 
comfortably settled in their new home. Mrs. Reeves kept 
her word, and often, when her husband left for the city 
• market, she would follow him to the big gate to say, “John, 
let what comes, don’t, for God’s sake, break the pledge !” 
Her advice was perhaps timely, but Reeves had no inclina- 
tion to retrace his old steps. What the temperance society 
commenced, the evangelical truths of the church finished, 
and no one would have recognized the dark, haggard, dogged 
inebriate, in the active, enthusiastic, church-going Reeves. 


Mrs. Ben Darbt. 


161 


Hannah was taken into Mr. Temple’s family as a friend, 
rather than a servant, to Elinor. In the meantime, Theo- 
dore Harper was not forgotten, but no one had seen or 
heard of him since the night Elinor was restored to her 
family. Every exertion had been made to find him out, but 
in vain. Letters were written back to his old home, 
but he had never returned or written. 

14 


162 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 








C j) e |i 1 1 1 l 

I see how folks live that have riches, 

But surely, poor folk maun be wretches. — B urns. 

The acquisition of fortune to the Fairmont family, ren- 
dered their manner of life more tolerable, and advanced 
their claims upon good society. It gave peace and plenty, 
where lately toil and want held the household in thraldom. 
It rendered Mr. Fairmont, at first, more pleasant and agree- 
able in his family. The excitement of moving to a fine 
commodious dwelling, purchasing furniture and luxuries, to 
which they had so long been strangers, amused and stimu- 
lated him for a few months, and drew him from his old 
habits. Mr. Temple and his temperance associates used 
their best endeavors to reclaim him. They tried to sur- 
round him with benign influences, and draw him within the 
circle of the brotherhood ; but he swore he was not going 
to be tied up by anybody — that he drank his own liquor, 
and paid for it with his own money — that he lived in a free 
country, and would do just as he pleased. “ What ! sign 
away his liberty, like a poor half-hearted devil, that could 
not say his soul was his own ? No, indeed ! he was not 
going to put his conscience in any other man’s keeping — 
if they did not like him or his wine, they could keep away ; 
he would see that the temperance folks handled none of his 
money !” 

His present situation afforded him the means of excessive 
indulgence. He could not, it is true, encroach upon the 




Mrs. Ben Darby. 


163 


property of liis wife and children in any point, yet he dis- 
posed of all that he could by right or ingenuity appropri- 
ate to himself or his extravagance. Every day he became 
more selfish. He gave suppers to a low, lawless set of 
associates and loafers, in disregard of the entreaties of his 
wife, or the delicate feelings of his children. Their future 
prospects never entered into his thoughts, but blind and 
willful, he dashed on through a vortex of degradation and 
crime. From excessive drinking, he gave way to every 
temptation that beset him. In the midst of his unlawful 
career, he was brought home at a late hour of the night, 
horribly mutilated in the face, and stabbed in his side by 
some hero of the bowie-knife, with whom he had quar- 
reled in some of those dens of infernal purposes. He had 
been gambling high, and being quite heated with his 
evening cups, he became captious and indignant toward his 
fiendish friends ; a dispute arose, which ended in a perfect 
row, in which he fell desperately wounded. 

He was received at home with every demonstration of 
care and attention, tie was confined to his bed, unable to 
assist himself, but lay like a chained demon, raving and 
blaspheming to such a degree, that his friends could not 
bear to approach him. His physician forbade him the use 
of stimulants, as his situation was very precarious, and his 
wounds in great danger of mortification. He became 
furious — had to be guarded by strong watchers. Through 
all the tortuous scenes of his confinement, his gentle wife, 
with unflinching fortitude, watched by his pillow. When 
others trembled and quailed at his hideous and unearthly 
extravagances, she soothed him by kind words and loving 
promises. He would beg for one drop — one taste only, as 


164 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


much as would dampen his feverish lips ; then he would 
rave, and break out in volleys of the most appalling curses. 
Thus passed a week, or ten days, in which time, in despite 
of his inhuman conduct, he began to recover. As his 
wounds became by degrees less alarming in their appear- 
ance and symptoms, he also gradually became more paci- 
fied in his nature, and less brutal in his manners ; suffice it 
to say, to the astonishment of all, he appeared quite satis- 
fied with his retirement and regimen, and seemed to have 
forgotten his former unprincipled course. Happy hearts 
rejoiced over his reformation, and prayed that it might be 
lasting. Months had passed since his disaster, but Fair- 
mont had never been able to leave the house. 

George had gone to West Point, and Kate to Troy, to 
complete their education. Mrs. Fairmont, with her four 
young children had gone out to take a walk in the park, as 
the afternoon had been quite oppressive. Mr. Fairmont’s 
attendants had long since been discharged, and for the last 
two months, it had not been thought necessary to have any 
particular watch over him. His servant was very faithful 
and attentive, and never left the house during his mis- 
tress’s absence. 

Mrs. Fairmont and her little party had been gone but a 
few moments, before some one rang the bell: 

“ Is Mr. Fairmont at home?” asked a man, in a low 
voice. 

“ Yes sir.” 

“ Tell him, an old friend wishes to see him.” 

“ That’s a jewel I did not know I possessed,” said Fair- 
mont, when he heard the message, “ hustle him along, and 
let’s see what kind of a bird he is. Ah! is it you, Darby? — 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


166 


where are you from ?” asked Fairmont, shaking him by 
the hand. 

“From perdition!” 

“You don't say so. How do you like the country ?— 
rather too warm, hey ?” 

“ I have no mind, or time to talk — where's your wife, 
Fairmont ?” 

“ Out, showing the children in the park.” 

“ Is she as pious as ever ?” 

“Just so.” 

“ And rich, I hear ?” added Darby. 

“ As cream, man — but what is it to you ?” 

“ I want money — I have just broken out of prison — I 
must have money enough to take me to — no matter 
where — I must have it.” 

“ I have none to give you.” 

“ Your wife has, and I must have some.” 

“Well! if you must, you must — but you will have to wait 
until Jane comes. I have been ill — very ill, for a long 
time, Darby, and have had no use for money.” 

“ No use for money!” repeated his companion, in a tone 
of mock surprise, “How you talk ! it surely can't be Simon 
Fairmont I am talking to, for I remember the time — and it 
has not been long ago either — when you could not have 
enough — and was not over nice about the means to gain 
it.” 

“ Talk on — I deserve all you can say — I have been a 
dev'lish scamp, and no mistake — but when you get honest 
it will be time to preach honesty to your betters.” 

“We will not quarrel about what we never had, or 


166 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


ever will have — I can’t wait for your purse-keeper — where 
does she keep her funds ?” 

“ What do you mean, Darby ? — what can you mean ?” 

“ Oh ! don’t be alarmed — I only intend to have some 
before I leave.” 

“ You don’t come to rob old friends,” said Fairmont, 
with a sarcastic smile; “if Jane had known you were in 
want, or her sister suffering, she would have attended to 
her case. Where is your wife, Darby ?” 

“ At our lodgings, on Hudson street — but come, if you 
have any money to give me, hurry — I must have some.” 

“ Here is all I have,” said Fairmont, giving him a ten 
dollar bill, “take it, and go your ways — and for God’s sake 
don’t show your face here again, if you have been guilty 
of a crime.” 

“ Is this the way you treat your old comrades ? Fair- 
mont, with all your roughness and brutality, I always 
thought there was something noble at the bottom of your 
nature, but I have judged erroneously — an old companion, 
one who always stuck to you through evil and good ” 

“ Evil ! yes, you may say that ; but it 'is darn’d little good 
that we ever saw together. I have never known one good 
act result from our intimacy ; and it matters not what we 
have been, I am bound to shield my family from the evil 
influence to which I have hitherto subjected them.” 

“How long since you made this heroic resolution?” in- 
quired Darby, with a sneer. 

“ Since you entered the room, and told me you had been 
in prison.” 

“ Accused of murder!” added Darby, boldly. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


167 


“ Guilty, or not guilty, Ben ?” 

“ That is for the jury to decide, when it has heard the 
evidence. Such things are very precarious, and I resolved 
to save running the risk, by making my escape. No doubt, 
they are searching for me now ^ it was our old friend, 
Benson.” 

“ That you murdered ?” asked Fairmont. 

“ He is not dead ; I wish he was.” 

“ That is very singular. I thought he was your best 
friend ?” 

“ He may be, for aught I know ; but he is suffering so, 
and all for nothing, that I wish I had let him alone, or ended 
his misery.” 

“ Tell me the circumstances, Darby ; were you gam- 
bling ?” 

“ No ; would you believe it, Fairmont? — it was jeal- 
ousy, the * green-eyed monster/ Oh ! I have led a horrible 
life since I saw you ; that woman has been my destiny.” 

“ Well, you would have it ; she was the wife of another 
man, and you wduld not let her be. Who is her tempter 
now — some very good-looking fellow, I suppose ?” 

“ She was innocent,” replied Darby, flinching as though 
he was felt with a probe. “ It was all imagination. You 
see, I had been drinking a little too freely, and when I en- 
countered my wife and some one walking toward our lodg- 
ings, I followed a little distance behind to watch their move- 
ments, and when they parted at the door, I confronted him, 
and accused him of trying to seduce my wife. He denied 
the charge, and said that ‘if I had not been guilty of such 
an act myself, I would not be so ready to accuse other 


168 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


people ;’ then I cursed him ; he struck me, and I stabbed 
him.” 

“ Is he dead, did you say ?” 

“Not quite.” 

“I was caught — brought before the court — and com- 
mitted to prison, last night. I broke out, and have been 
hid all day under ground. You see my necessities are im- 
perious!” 

“ I thought liquor was never your excuse for foul deeds — 
it never unnerved you ?” 

“ It begins to affect me differently. I loathe it — yet have 
not strength of purpose enough to shun it. It is part of my 
nature ; I could not exist without it. They tell me you 
have reformed,” continued Darby, looking quizzically at 
his old comrade. 

“ Well, I don’t pretend to say I have. I can’t feel as if 
I had ; but if you had told me, six months ago, that I could 
have kept soul and body together so long, without the use 
of ardent spirits, I should have laughed at the idea.” 

“ I should have laughed myself,” said his visitor, sneer- 
iugly. 

“ I don’t know, now, what I might do if I was tempted — 
just in the road of it. Man is a poor, weak devil at 
best.” 

“ Yes ; very feeble, when he suffers himself to be de- 
prived of his liberty of conscience — to be cooped up and 
restrained like a bad boy.” 

“ To tell you the truth, Darby, I have found out, since 
my long illness, that I am a poor, half-souled, irresolute, 
uncertain machine, which has been so used and abused, 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


169 


that it has to be braced up and screwed at every point ; and 
after all its repairs, it can scarcely perform the purposes for 
which it was originally made.” 

“ You are growing philosophical, I perceive.” 

“ No ; I have been blind, and am just getting my eyes 
open.” 

“ You cannot walk out?” asked Darby, kindly smiling, 
“ because now you have reformed, there would be no dan- 
ger of your going in too deep, and I would like to take a 
parting glass, for * auld lang syne/ you know.” 

“ It is with great difficulty I can move across the floor,” 
replied Fairmont, “ and even if I could, drinking with Ben 
Darby, a well-to-do grocery-keeper, and Ben Darby, a refu- 
gee murderer, are two things!” 

“ Well, Fairmont, you slia’n’t say that I stood by, and 
saw you imposed on — held in vile slavery — your conscience 
contracted and extended according to the notions and 
whims of others. See here,” and with the smile of a de- 
mon, he drew a flask from his pocket, and set it down on 
the table, “ don’t this remind you of old times. It is the 
same tickler that we used in common so long. I leave it 
with you as a memento of happier days. If you can look 
at it two weeks .without tasting it, why, n^an, you may 
know whether you have reformed or not ; this will re- 
move all doubts ; you may call yourself a reformed drunk- 
ard.” 

“For God’s sake, take it away,” cried Fairmont, his face 
flushing, and trembling from head to foot. 

“ No, no, Fairmont, I call this a knock-down argument ; 
farewell, perhaps when you hear of me again, I shall be 

elevated to a more conspicuous situation ;” buttoning up his 
15 


170 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


coat, he hurried down stairs, leaving his old comrade be- 
wildered by his movements. 

Fairmont drew a long breath, as he heard the door close 
behind his visitor. For some time he sat with his eyes 
fixed on his old acquaintance, as it sat cozily on the table, 
with its well-remembered features. The abrupt and unex- 
pected visit of Darby upset his composure, and his mind, in 
a moment, was running back over the long waste of mis- 
spent years — times of their early association. His heart 
warmed at the recollection of their jovial hours — of their 
wild, boisterous, and reckless exploits — the wit and humor 
of his comrade — 

“ His ancient, trusty, drouther crony, 

He loved him like a vera brither, 

They had been fou for weeks thegither.” 

It was in vain that he tried to divert his thoughts. He 
took up the newspaper and tried to read, but he could not 
keep his eyes from the bottle. 

“ Ho, it will not do to tamper with the lion, or play with 
edged tools,” said he, drawing himself up. “ I will not 
meddle with the cursed stuff. What can make Ben so vile ? 
— the insidious tempter — IT1 let him see what grit I am.” 
He took up the bottle and held it before the light. It was 
full. He took out the stopper, and a perfume of rich cogniac 
saluted his olfactory nerves. It was strong and powerful, 
as of old. “ I’ll be hanged if it is not the real stuff, and 
no mistake ; Simon, what say you to a pull ? — ‘ to drink, or 
not to drink, that is the question ’ — whether, like a man, I 
will wrestle against temptation, or turn once more to death 
and ruin. Oh ! thou accursed begetter of ten thousand fu- 
rious passions ! thou deadly anodyne to all the noble feel- 


Mrs. Ben Darby, 


171 


ings of man’s nature ! enticer to all the horrors of polluted 
fancy ! engenderer of vice, and all the catalogue of evils to 
which the soul is subject ! Oh ! howl have loved thee, thou 
damnable drug ! How blindly have I devoted all to thy 
service — to thy infernal influence ! Wife, children, and 
friends, reputation and health, have all been surrendered 
without one effort, one solitary reservation. I have served 
thee with a blind zeal and never-flinching devotion ; but I 
renounce thee forever ; I will not yield myself a victim to 
thy dominion again. Oh ! we must struggle for the mastery. 
Lie there, thou fell destroyer ! Begone ! I will not taste 
thee, beverage of hell !” He pushed it out of sight, 
and turned to the open window ; the breeze came 
softly over his agitated face ; he heard the steps of his 
wife on the pavement, and the joyous voices of the 
little gladsome party, as they followed their mother up 
the steps. 

“ How glad I am, Simon, you did not touch it,” said he, 
mentally, as his wife entered with her calm, sweet smile. 
She approached him so loving and true that he could not 
resist the newly-awakened stimulus of nature in his 
heart — he reached out his arms, and- without any expla-. 
nation, she was pressed to his heart, and for the first 
time in her life, she felt his warm tears upon her cheek. 
His voice was husky, with strange and incomprehensible 
emotion. 

Mrs. Fairmont looked wildly in his face ; the new and 
unaccountable expression of his features overpowered her, 
and she hid her face in his bosom. 

“ Don’t be alarmed, Jane, I am not going to act the fool ; 


172 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


don’t cry. I am a devilish queer fellow ; I am a monster, 
wife, I know it ; why have you not hated me all this time — 
shunned and despised me ?” 

“ Because you were my husband — the father of my 
children, and you have always loved me 99 

“ Jane, that is true ; but I have been very unkind.” 

“ You never meant to be so.” 

“ Yes, I did, Jane ; do you see that bottle ?” 

“ What bottle ?” said Jane, in great agitation. 

“ This, wife, do you see it ?” 

“ Yes ; what is in it V 9 

“Life or death. Brandy, child, brandy.” 

“ How strange you are to-night — how did you 
get it ?” 

“ A friend brought it to me.” 

“ Oh ! no — not a friend, but some poor, miserable 
tempter. Oh ! pray, do not taste it ; perhaps it is 
drugged. 

“ Ay, I know it is, with poison more subtle than helle- 
bore, for it kills soul and body.” 

“Let me destroy it, Mr. Fairmont,” asked his wife, be- 
seechingly. 

“ No, Jane, I want you every day, at dinner, and every 
evening, at tea, to place this bottle before me.” 

“ Oh ! I cannot, husband — Oh ! no, I will not tempt you 
in any way ; no, I dare not do it.” 

“ Well, well, our man John shall do it.” 

This was actually done, at his request, every day for 
two weeks : at the expiration of the term, and just that 
evening two weeks from the time Darby left, Mr. Fairmont 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


173 


arose at the tea-table, and taking the bottle in his hand, 
and holding it out to his wife, said : 

“ Jane, take this, it has lost even the power of temptation; 
I am a changed man, and I have to thank you and this 
bottle.” 

Just as he placed it again on the table it burst into 
pieces ; the remains at the bottom of it were examined, and 
were found to contain opium. What was Darby's design no 
one knew. 

Months passed off, and Fairmont remained true to his 
good resolutions; he was indeed a changed man, and Jane 
Fairmont was more than fully compensated for all her hard 
trials ; all her sorrows were forgotten, or if they returned 
to memory they only served to magnify, by contrast, the 
magnitude of her present happiness. 

When he became well enough to go out, she was always 
ready to accompany him, and as he still continued to be 
very lame, she always had a good excuse for offering her 
services. She dreaded, at first, his meeting with his old 
companions, for fear they might again lead him astray be- 
fore his reformation could be radically effected. Her influ- 
ence over him increased every day ; she persuaded him to 
attend a temperance lecture, and as he was naturally warm 
and impetuous, he was carried away by the enthusiasm 
manifested by the speaker ; he felt so fully sensible of the 
truths held forth in the arguments that he joined heartily in 
the cause ; he even went so far as to give an off-hand speech 
on temperance, which was remarkable alone for its origin- 
ality and vehemence ; but it had a wonderful effect upon 
those of the audience who had been acquainted with his for- 
mer course of life." 


174 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


He lost, by degrees, the rough, unfeeling manner which 
had marked his wayward course, and became less harsh 
and blunt in his domestic circle. Mrs. Fairmont would 
have felt unspeakably happy at the change daily manifested 
in the conduct of her husband, had she not also witnessed 
the rapid decline of his constitutional powers. As his mind 
gained health and strength his frame gradually yielded to an 
insidious disease brought on by habitual intemperance. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


175 


Chapter 15. 

Lo, you ! here she comes. This is her very guise ; and upon my life, fast asleep. 
Observe her — stand close. — Shakspeare. 

Mrs. Fairmont had been trying, for several weeks, to 
discover the lodgings of Darby and his wife ; at last she 
gave up all hope of discovering them. Hannah Reeves, 
one of her most efficient emissaries, declared “that you 
had just as well look for a needle in a haystack.” Some 
three or four days after Mrs. Fairmont’s last search for her 
sister, and after she had abandoned all hope of seeing or 
hearing from her, she, by accident, was led to discover 
them. Bridget, a girl employed as a nurse, came in, one 
morning, to desire permission to go home for an hour 
or so. 

“ Why will not to-morrow do as well?” asked Mrs. Fair- 
mont. 

“As for myself, ma’am,” replied Bridget; “it would be 
all one and the same thing; but, ma’am, my mother is 
quite poorly, and my father is drunk, and the children are 
all down with the measles, and our genteel boarders are 
going to leave without paying their dues ; and you know, 
ma’am, it is very hard to live on nothing without some- 
thing to keep it up.” 

“Yes, Bridget, especially if one has boarders.” 

“And sich boarders, too, ma’am ! Why it is only taking 
the bread out of our own mouths to put it in theirs.” 


17 G 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Why do you not get rid of them ?” 

“We have tried hard to do it, hut you had as well try 
to shift off the ague.” 

“ Do you find their meals ?” 

“ Only once a day, when called for. It is no very great 
need that they have for victuals, to-be-sure, ma’am.” 

“ Yery queer people ! How do they live ?” 

“ True for you, ma’am, and well might you say that 
same thing, providing you could see them and their doings — 
but it is not myself that likes to be-rate our customers.” 

“Are they decent people?” 

“Dacent! Oh! ma’am, all but the dacent — they both 
drink beyond all r’asonable bounds.” 

“Drink!” cried Mrs. Fairmont, with a start; “who 
knows, Bridget, but they are the very people we have been 
looking for?” 

“Never, ma’am!” replied Bridget, raising her hands 
and eyes. 

“ What name do they go by?” 

“She calls herself Mrs. Ben Darby.” 

“Oh! yes, it is the same. Is the woman very hand- 
some?” 

“Sorry a bit, ma’am; she and beauty has parted long 
ago, and are now living like strangers.” 

Mrs. Fairmont gave the girl permission to visit home and 
see how matters stood, and if the boarders had not left, to 
return and let her know ; and if she needed any comforts 
for the sick children, she would try and supply them. 

“ Thank’ee, ma’am ; and if everybody was like your own 
self, ma’am, it is very little of sorrow the world would be 
afther knowing.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


177 


About an hour elapsed and Bridget returned in great 
haste. 

“ Ma’am, if you please, you can come.” 

“Is she still there? — you are certain?” 

“ Oh! yes, ma’am; but, be sure, and she is no company 
for you, ma’am.” 

“ It is my duty, girl — I must see her.” 

“Well, ma’am, and you will have no very pleasant sight — 
I am sure not. It will excite your pitiful tears to see sich 
a sight.” 

“ Bridget, you will go with me?” 

“ Surely, ma’am, if your heart is set on it; but, dear, it 
is very shocking to great ladies like you, ma’am, to visit 

such places. My mother is poor and my father is 

Oh ! ma’am, I can’t say the word — it sticks in my 
throat !” 

“Ah, child !” said Mrs. Fairmont, “ I have been in very 
poor places. I will do you no harm, and I will try and 
benefit you all I can ; you are a good girl, come with 
me ;” and followed by the girl, the good lady bent her 
steps toward Anthony street. They entered a building of 
very mean appearance — a grocery was kept in front — Brid- 
get’s family occupied two rooms above — one was “to let,” 
the other was occupied by the father, mother, and four 
small children. The back room, opening on a little, filthy 
alley, was used for various purposes ; a brush-maker worked 
in one, and an old woman was doing up muslin in another ; 
on the door of the third was this advertisement — “ Carpets 
shook and chimneys cured of smoking — done here.” 

“ This way, please,” said Bridget, leading the way up a 
tottering pair of stairs, worn thin by hard usage and heavy 


178 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


feet. She opened the door at the head of the hall, and Mrs. 
Fairmont found herself in the presence of her sister. On 
a very Iqw, contracted bed, with ordinary and unclean 
quilts, sat Mrs. Ben Darby. She had changed so much 
that her sister was, for a moment or two, uncertain whether 
it could in reality be the one she sought or not, but she 
soon satisfied herself that her conjectures were right. 

“Jane Fairmont !” exclaimed Mrs. Darby, rolling her- 
self from the foot of the bedstead and seating herself up- 
right. “Well, really, I am taken by surprise.” 

“ I felt that I must see you once more, Mary.” 

“I am oppressed by your condescension.” 

“ You need not be ; I have come from good motives — I 
believed it my duty to do so.” 

“ Duty ! duty ! Oh ! yes, you and duty are synony- 
mous ideas. Dear me! Well, Jane, how are you getting 
on now? Do you make out to spend your money, or does 
it rust on your hands — or does the Church help you to 
lighten the pile ?” 

“ Mary, it matters not what you say, I am prepared to 
bear it all. I have done wrong in not seeking you before.” 

“ Indeed ! I was not aware of it.” 

“ I felt I had given you up too easily.” 

“ I never complained of it, Jane.” 

“ I have come to see if I can in any way help you, or 
add to your comfort.” 

“Yes, Jane, of course you can. You are now rich, 
and I am poor. If you have any money on your hands, I 
will willingly do you the favor to use it ; but if you have 
come here to talk about religion and temperance, and all 
that sort of thing, why I will not spend my time listening to 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


179 


you, for I am giving music lessons, and have all my time 
occupied.” 

4 ‘ Mary, if you need money, I have it for you — but I 
must once more try and save you. I cannot refrain from 
making one more effort to reform you — to draw you from 
your old ways.” 

“Mrs. Fairmont,” said the lady, drawing herself up with 
great dignity, “ if you don’t like my ways, you can let me 
alone. I despise, as much as ever, your intolerable 
cant !” 

“ Call it what you please, Mary ; it has been my com- 
fort and stay, and made me happy in the darkest hour. 
What is a woman without faith and hope in a world to 
come ?” 

“ This world suits me very well, Jane, if I had my 
share of it — but tell me, is it true that Fairmont has 
reformed ?” 

“ He has not drank a drop in three months.” 

“ Of course, I had reference to his drinking. Your hus- 
band has always been such a blunt, low, vulgar individual, 
that it could not be supposed he could change in any other 
way. I suppose you have accomplished the mighty 
work by prayer and fasting — or, perhaps, by moral 
suasion.” 

“ Mary,” said Mrs. Fairmont, and a deep shade reddened 
her cheek, “ he has courageously extricated himself — 
he called into exertion every power within him, and, with 
the assistance of his God, he has been able to conquer his 
foe !” 

“ Ah! I suppose he has become pious — but you really 
do not mean to say that Fairmont has reformed ? Is he in 


V 


180 Mrs. Ben Darby. 

earnest ? Is he religions? You have lived too long, Jane, 
to be duped at last.” 

“ Ho, Mary, my husband is no hypocrite ; you know 
very well, he never was ; he may return to his old habits, 
but he is sincere now. He is not a professor of religion 
yet, but we all know that there is no good action or effort, 
which man may make, that goes unrewarded. There is 
no good thought, breathed in silence and solitude, that goes 
unacknowledged — even on the instant, God is ever ready 
to assist the good purposes of the soul.” 

“ Oh yes, you have preached that, doctrine so long that 
you have it at your fingers’ ends. How do you know all 
this, pray, even if it was true ?” 

“ God has given us a written revelation — He has given 
us capacities to love, and tenderness to bestow. He has 
invited us to converse with Him in prayer.” 

“ Well, go on,” said Mrs. Darby, with mock solemnity. 

“ Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, 

Uttered, or unexpressed ; 

The motion of a hidden fire, 

That trembles in the breast.” 

“ Oh ! plague on it all, Jane,” cried Mrs. Darby, furi- 
ously, 6< you may poke such nonsense at your brothers and 
sisters, but I will not hear one word more — I will not,” — 
and putting a finger in each ear, she began to whistle — 
“ The Campbells are coming.” 

Poor Jane sat silent, and at a loss how to proceed. 

“ Jane Fairmont,” said Mrs. Darby, suddenly dropping 
her fingers from her auricles, “ I never could see how a 
woman of your wonderful sense, could be so easily gulled. 
All this religious fuss is sheer nonsense — just got up to 
frighten folks into being good.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


181 


“ Oh ! Mary, do not say that — you will yet see your 
error, when it is too late !” 

“ Never ! never ! I am not very changeable in my opin- 
ions. I will not believe in God ! I never did, nor 
never can !” 

“ Mary, if you could, only for a moment, realize the sus- 
taining power of faith, how little and vain would appear the 
temptations which now beset you ! Sister, let me plead 
with you — do not treat me so harshly. Listen with pa- 
tience, but for a moment. Oh ! Mary, I have prayed for 
you — ” 

“ Had you not enough in your own family to occupy your 
faith ?” asked Mrs. Darby, sneeringly. “ As to your 
prayers, I do not thank you for them. I despise your 
canting fuss. I desire you to drop it.” 

“ I must speak,” replied Mrs. Fairmont ; “ I came for 
that purpose. You never will hear the truth but from me; 
no one else dares speak to you on the subject. I tell you, 
Mary, you are destroying soul and body — the invincible 
spirit of crime is hovering over you — death and irretriev- 
able ruin are before you — pause, before it is too late — 
think, while reason and life are un quenched.” 

“ I will not hear another word,” said Mrs. Darby, rising, 
with a flushed face, and trembling with excitement. “I 
would not give the snap of my finger for all the religion in 
the world — it is all hypocrisy.” 

“ Well, Mary, take all religion out of the question — 
your conduct is destructive to your health, your character, 
your peace of mind, all that is sacred and dear to the heart 
of woman. You will sink deeper and deeper, until you 


182 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


become a loathsome burden to yourself, and a stigma on 
your family.” 

“ You may talk now , Mrs. Fairmont, but the time has 
been, when you did not hold your head so very high !” 

“ The time has never been, Mary, when I could not look 
the pure and the honest in the face. I have had my sor- 
rows, mortifications, and misfortunes — my pride has been 
humbled, my best feelings abused — but my conscience, 
through all, has remained untarnished, and, although tied 
to the fate of a drunkard, yet still, I have had moments of 
bliss, and hours of sweet and holy inspiration, w'hich the 
troubles of life could not destroy or diminish.” 

“ You need not get animated !” cried Mrs. Darby, wildly 
throwing up her arms; “ I despise your hypocrisy — I loathe 
and detest your sanctity. It is none of your business if I 
go to hell ! — I will go on my own expense — it will not cost 
you anything. Don’t lay ‘the flattering unction to your 
soul ’ that you have caused me one regret, or been instru- 
mental in raising one penitential thought — one sigh of 
remorse. I am superior to your vile superstition and hum- 
buggery. If you are mistress of your time, I am not,” con- 
tinued she, pulling on a pair of soiled kid gloves ; “I give 
music lessons to the Miss Dumptons, and must wish you a 
good morning.” She was just in the act of bowing herself 
out when she confronted her husband, who came rushing 
in, and nearly overthrew her, for neither of the pair were 
very stable. 

“ Our passages are taken — come, gather up your trum- 
pery, and let’s be off 1” 

“ And is it for going you are ?” cried the landlady. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


183 


springing up stairs, looking first at Darby and then at his 
wife ; and without paying your bill ? Well, we will see 
which is the fool. And you call yourselves big-bugs, hey ! 
Now let’s see you be it, and pay down your dues. Not 
one dud leaves this premises till my money is paid. A 
pretty piece of business, to give the best room and the 
choice of everything for nothing ! You have been trouble 
enough to please, not to mention your disorderly manners 
and unchristian way of living. Take that, will you, 
ma’am !” 

Mrs. Fairmont found it impossible to hold any more con- 
versation with her sister, and despairing of doing any other 
good, pulled out her purse and paid the bills ; after which 
she assisted them by procuring suitable clothing for their 
journey, and begged the landlady to make them as com- 
fortable as possible until they left. 

“ Comfortable indade !” cried the landlady, “and how 
in the wide world would you think to make her comfortable 
unless with a demijohn of the cratur, or a something 
stronger than water, and — asking your pardon — snoring 
and wallowing like brute beasts ?” 

The story he had invented about stabbing his friend was 
all a romance, got up for the occasion to force money 
from Fairmont. It is true, he had been imprisoned lately, 
frequently, for his outrageous conduct in the streets and 
public places of resort. 


184 Mrs. Ben Dabby. 


CljafUr 16 . 

Death is a fearful thing.— Measure for Measure. 

Six or seven years liad passed since the reformation of 
Mr. Fairmont. His constitution was so impaired by his 
long course of reckless dissipation, that he fell into a rapid 
decline, and was soon called to exchange worlds. 

Endowed with a vigorous frame, strong intellect, and 
naturally a lively, gbod-natured disposition, he might have 
lived longer, and proved a comfort to his family and an orna- 
ment to society, had it not been for the “ enchanted cup.” 
All these gifts were worn out in the servitude of a master 
appetite, in slavery and in chains, not only suffering himself, 
but blighting the hopes and crushing the hearts which clung 
to him through poverty, want and degradation. But Death 
came ! It comes to all — the mighty and the weak, the sin- 
ner and the penitent, the willing Christian and the ready 
infant — yes, it came to the reformed drunkard, and as he 
lay calmly watching the sun’s rays filleting the canopy 
of his couch with golden threads, he smiled faintly and 
turned his eyes to the guardian face of his wife. 

“ My wife,” he muttered, and tried hard to grasp her 
hand, but alas ! his was weak in death. 

“ What did you wish, dear husband ?” asked Jane, bend- 
ing her cheek to his in order to catch his lowest tone. 

“ Wife !” he repeated, and a smile of indescribable satis- 
faction passed over his countenance. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 185 

“ I am here ; did I ever leave you ?” 

“ Never ! never I’’ -Is ’ , 

“ Tell me, dear, then, what you wish.” 

“ Wife !” he repeated, fixing his filmy eyes upon her 
quivering face, “ wife ! wife I” As the last word passed 
from his lips, his hand relaxed its hold upon Jane’s, 
and a slight spasm about the mouth told that all was 
over. 

“ Wife ! wife !” the sound seemed almost to linger in that 
still apartment. Wife! yes, what had the world of Ms 
gratitude — what left he behind but that one faithful heart — 
and she dared not mourn his loss ; yet true to the end, she 
stood alone at his dying pillow, her prayers rising like holy 
incense to the throne of the Redeemer. 

As the last breath passed away, and his countenance set- 
tled in the rigidity of death, Mrs. Fairmont wiped the 
clammy drops from his brow, smoothed down the motionless 
eyelids, and gazed long on his stiffening features. 

Her mind was carried back, in despite of herself, to the 
days of her childhood — the days of early love — the bright, 
beautiful morning she gathered her bridal wreath, and 
walked with a light step and trusting heart to the village 
church ; — she remembered his vows of devotion to her — 
the fleeting dream of the honeymoon. Then came long and 
bitter reminiscences, like a train of funeral specters — the 
many weary watches of the night — her footsteps upon his 
haunted path, his staggering way — his horrid excesses, chil- 
ling curses — his taunts, his selfishness and barbarity to his 
children — his bartered integrity — his brutality in all things 
— his derision, his scorn of religion. 

16 


186 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


These things passed through her mind like broken 
dreams, but how insupportable her feelings must have 
been, if she had in any one instance spurned him, or 
added, by her ill-temper or willfulness, an impetus to 
his reckless course ; but now, as she laid her hand upon 
his cold, hard brow, and viewed the ravages of death in 
every lineament of his face, no remorse or self-accusation 
augmented the trials of the moment. She had the con- 
sciousness of having performed every duty connected with 
her married life. 

She could recall no querulous murmur, no bitter invec- 
tive — no harsh, or unkind repugnance or sentiment of deri- 
sion — disgust, or anything calculated to aggravate his feel- 
ings. Her life had heretofore been a chronicle of resignation, 
trust, and faith. The few last years, her husband had led 
a very different life, and of course she had been compara- 
tively happy, and felt, now that death had separated 
them, a hope of meeting him in a better and a brighter 
world. 

Oh! if it was not for that faith that bears the Christian’s 
hopes beyond the clouds and vapors of this world, to that 
serene atmosphere, where not a doubt or fear interposes 
between him and his God, ah ! dear me ! how dark 
would this life be — how aimless and inglorious would 
be the best performance, if man had no hope of a future 
life, but was doomed “ to fly away as a dream, yea, 
chased away as a vision of the night.” The Christian 
says: 

“ Oh ! that my words were now written ! Oh ! that they 
were printed in a book !” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


187 


“That they were graven with an iron pen and lead, in 
the rock forever \” 

“ For I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he 
shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.” 

“ And though after my skin, worms destroy this body, 
yet, in my flesh shall I see God!” 


188 


Mrs. Ben Darbt. 


Chapter 17. 

“ 0 sir ! to willful men 
The injuries that they themselyes procure 
Must be their schoolmasters.” 

Elinor Temple and Kate Fairmont liad finished their 
education in the far-famed Troy Seminary. They were 
both interesting, and it would have been difficult to award 
the palm of beauty to either. 

Kate was fair and delicate, her figure slight, auburn 
hair and blue eyes ; sweet gentle eyes, like a child’s, guile- 
less, but loving. She was sensitive to acuteness, shrink- 
ing, trusting, unsuspicious ; holding on to all the beautiful 
and bright things in life — dreading, shunning the harsh- 
ness and asperities of nature. Like her mother, she had 
given her heart to the gentle teachings of the Holy Spirit, 
and was meekly learning of Mary’s master, choosing that 
better part, which could not be taken from her. She had, 
like most young persons, a good deal of romance in her 
disposition, at least enough to make her enthusiastic. 

Elinor Temple had fulfilled the ardent desires of her 
father, at least he felt proud and well satisfied with her 
improvements 

I shall not endeavor to describe her in the parlance of 
the novelist, for I am not writing fiction, but speak the 
words of truth and soberness. She had still her glossy 
black hair, her dark, pensive eyes. When she laughed, 
she displayed a brilliant set of teeth, but she never 
laughed for that purpose. Her education was more 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


189 


thorough, and perhaps more substantial, than young ladies 
generally have a predilection for. Her mind, under such 
discipline, had become steady in its researches, and de- 
cided in its purposes. 

She was almost too silent and quiet for one of her years, 
but sobriety is very beautiful when adorned with youth 
and beauty, and I may add, wealth. 

The young ladies, as I have already said, had finished 
their education. They are now presented to the reader, 
on the splendid steam-packet the New World, gliding down 
the placid waters of the Hudson, to their friends and 
home. 

Many events had transpired since they had left the city. 
Within their family, Mr. Fairmont had died, and Elinor’s 
grandfather had passed away, and was sleeping among 
his native hills. 

“ But the strangest of all,” said Kate, “ is that your 
aunt Paulina is married — everybody set her down as an 
old maid.” 

“ She has married, my papa writes me,” replied Elinor, 
“a splendid looking man, and one of rare talents — but see, 
Kate, we are at West Point;” and as Elinor spoke, she 
placed her arm in her cousin’s, and they walked out to 
where Mrs. Fairmont sat, viewing the scenery. The boat 
had stopped to take in passengers, and among the crowd, 
were several remarkable young gentlemen ; and as they 
passed into the boat, they were hailed by some friends on 
board, who seemed very joyful at their arrival. One of 
the passengers who was taken in at West Point, seemed to 
be quite ill ; he leaned on the arm of a very tall, strong, 
independent-looking man, whom Elinor felt certain she had 


190 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


seen before, but when, or where, she cpuld not say. The 
sick young gentleman elicited much attention, and much 
sympathy. They laid him on a settee under the awning, 
and his companions gathered around. 

“ Poor dear soul,” said an old lady on board, “ perhaps 
he has the cholery.” 

“ How do you get on with your patient, Doc. ?” asked 
a young gentleman, who had just joined the group ; “ do 
you make any progress in the restoration of his faculties ?” 
He addressed himself to the tall assistant of the sick man. 

“ No, you undo my work as fast as I perform it. He was 
much better last week, until you got him off.” 

“ Do you hear that, Clarence ?” and there was loud 
laughing among them.” 

“ You are very welcome to make merry at my expense,” 
replied the tall gentleman, “ but humanity forbids you to 
mock such a case as that,” and he pointed to the prostrate 
youth, who seemed regardless of all around him. 

The bystanders were amazed at the heartless levity of 
the young gentlemen, who could find it in their hearts to 
laugh at a poor sick fellow-creature ; but when they found 
out that he was drunk, and had been so for days, pity gave 
way to contempt, and they walked off, one by one, and left 
him to the care of a solitary friend. 

Yes, young and delicate as he looked, that youth had 
been drunk for days. His friend was trying to sober him, 
before they reached the city, as he was expected there by 
his mother, who had sent for him to visit his twin-sister, who 
was dying of consumption. His friend had stopped with 
him the day before, in the neighborhood of West Point, to 
endeavor to sober him ; for ever while under the influence 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


191 


of ardent spirits, he was subject to convulsions which were 
horrible to witness, Notwithstanding all the aggravation 
of the case, there were several young men on board who 
had used every exertion to have him drink, just as soon as 
he began to recover from the vile condition into which ho 
was plunged. Poor boy ! and a widow's son ! 

The boat touched the pier at the foot of Courtlandt ; 
all was hurry and confusion ; the passengers going out — 
visitors coming in, seeking friends, and passing out again ; 
the gathering of baggage — the blusterings of the chamber- 
maid ; the porters after checks ; drummers for the hotels, 
screaming forth the praises of the various establishments ; 
the hack-drivers and the cabmen storming and cracking 
their whips ; sticking them up in the faces of the passengers 
with such hearty ferocity, that one unaccustomed to such 
scenes would momentarily suppose that the city was in gen- 
eral revolt, and had passed an ordinance that no strangers 
should effect disembarkation on the island. 

“ Tenth street," said Mrs. Fairmont, as they seated them- 
selves in the hack. 

“ Tenth street!" shouted the porter to the driver, as he 
closed the carriage door. 

“ Tenth street !" repeated one of the young gentlemen, 
from the side of the packet, “ I could have sworn it." 

“So could I — what is it ?" asked one of his companions. 

“ That those folks lived in Tenth street." 

“ May I ask why ?" 

“ They are the Temples — the very people my uncle has 
sent me to visit." 

“You were always a lucky dog, Clarence." 

“ I tell you those girls are sum; I wish it was my uncle's 


192 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


nephew, instead of you, that makes their acquaintance. 
Pray, be liberal; don’t fall in love with both.” 

A smile of ineffable contempt crossed the features of the 
tall protector of the sick youth, when he heard this little 
episode, as he was placing his charge in the care of those 
who had been sent to convey him home. 

“ Tenth street,” he repeated, mentally, and walked ra- 
pidly up Courtlandt, and was soon lost in the mighty crowd 
that waves down the great thoroughfare. 


MRS. BEN DARBY. 


PART II. 


CJjajiter 18 . 

\ 

Here we are met, three merry hoys, 

Three merry boys, I trow are we ; 

And monie a night we’ve merry been, 

And monie mae we hope to be. — B urns. 

It was a dark, wintery night. The gas-lights shone dimly 
through the dark fog which filled the atmosphere ; a damp, 
chilly air came from the bay, that gave a charm to warm 
rooms and crowded assemblies. A gentleman, enveloped 
partially in a cloak of the most modern fabrication and ap- 
proved style, paused at the corner of Barclay street, to read, 
by the rays of a lamp, a card which he had drawn from his 
pocket. 

The light falling on his upraised face, revealed an intel- 
lectual physiognomy. Genius, wit, classical lore, and 
boundless aspirations were expressed in his candid coun- 
tenance. The eccentric luster of his dark eyes was set off 
by a decidedly fashionable moustache. His dress and 
movements were of that peculiar and not-to-be-mistaken 
character, which city life always bestows upon the ^wealthy 
and refined. All who were acquainted with the different 
phases of New York population, could have felt no hesita- 
tion in pronouncing him a star of the upper firmament. 

IT (193) 


194 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Ah ! tenth street,” he said, and replaced the card in 
his pocket, then drawing his cloak more closely around 
him, watched intently the omnibuses which passed in 
quick succession up and down Broadway. 

“Are you lost, Duval?” said a familiar voice, while a 
rather abrupt hand pulled him by the folds of his cloak ; 
“ Or are you deliberating which of the two to choose — 
Niblo’s or the opera ?” 

“Watching for an omnibus to Tenth-street; but when 
did you return from Brooklyn?” 

“ About an hour ago, and I have been searching for 
you ever since; but say, old crony, what draws you 
to Tenth-street? Very urgent business? I hope it admits 
of postponement on account of weather, for we must 
have you to-night — we cannot possibly get along without 
you.” 

“What, not if you have Morgan and Sandford and 
Symes?” 

“No, it will be no go without you. Who will sing 
for us ?” 

“ It will be impossible for me to be with you to-night. 
There are four or five of our old set in the city ; let some 
one of them make up your number.” 

“ Oh ! it is not numbers — we are not deficient in that 
respect — but spirit, Duval, such as poor Yorick’s. Sand- 
ford is a lackadaisical devil, on]y half-witted at best, and 
Symes is a would-be humorist as, flat and pointless as sour 
champagne — so you see, we cannot do without you.” 

“Not to-night — my friends will expect me.” 

“Yes, to-night, by all that is glorious !” 

“ * Business before pleasure’ was my father’s maxim — I 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


195 


have some very important business to look after — affairs 
that must be attended to.” 

“ That was a motto concocted for the benefit of the last 
generation ; in these progressive times we discard all such 
musty references and go a-head on our own hook. So come 
along, to-morrow will do just as well.” 

“ To-morrow will be Sunday.” 

“So much the better, you will have a whole day to 
recruit and repair damages in.” 

“ Quite impossible, Herman, my friends must be attend- 
ed to.” 

“No backing out, Clarence; our old hearties will expect 
you — we have lots of arrangements. Come, there is no 
getting off.” 

“Excuse me, Herman,” said Duval, coolly; “my affairs 
are imperious.” 

“Ah, pardon me ! I recollect now — it is a Tenth-street 
omnibus you are waiting for. No doubt, those blue eyes 
are very imperious. I suppose, if there is a woman in the 
opposition I shall have to surrender, hey?” 

“No, no, there is no lady in the case ; but to be true and 
candid with you, Herman, I must begin to discipline myself 
more to business — my natural disposition for excitment ; my 
propensities for mirth and hilarity are getting almost too 
strong to master. I have been a sad truant lately, if I do 
not now begin to struggle I shall ” 

“ ‘Fall like Lucifer, never to rise again/ ” added his com- 
panion. “Oh, nonsense! come along then to my room, 
we will talk it all over. If you cannot spend the even- 
ing you can warm yourself, for it is very cold chatting 
here — hang it all, come along, it is but a square or 


196 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


two. You need more coaxing than a young girl would to 
marry.” 

“ Well, well, as you insist so earnestly there is no refrain- 
ing. It is indeed very chilly here, but I have only a very 
few minutes to spare.” 

A smile of sinister raillery glided over the dark counte- 
nance of Herman Frazier when he found his companion so 
easily duped. So looks the stealthy fowler, when he finds 
his unconscious prey cunningly enticed within the meshes 
of his fillet. 

They entered the -hotel ; Frazier insisted on his friend 
taking something to drink, as they had been standing out 
so long in the evening’s damp. The office was filled with 
loungers, and the street musicians were performing in con- 
cert with remuneration in prospective. Duval looked 
around at the motley groups, as if not heeding his com- 
panion. The latter seeing his hesitation, said : 

“ One glass, Clarence, by way of preventive.” 

Fearing one look of ridicule, he took the glass of brandy, 
drank it, and followed his companion to his room — the door 
was closed, and they cozily seated themselves before a 
good fire. 

“ Only see how comfortable I can make you — not quite 

so magnificent as B , but soyez tranquille, and do not 

suppose your friends will stand by and see you bury your- 
self, like an old, imbecile miser, among the gifts which 
nature and fortune have bestowed upon you, when they 
;an make you a leading spirit in society. It is time enough 
jo preach temperance and abstinence, when old age gets a 
iease on you or death comes with a habeas corpus. 

“ One thing is decided,” said Clarence, stretching his 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


197 


feet upon the fender, and folding his arms on his bosom, 
looking as imperturbable as Napoleon himself ; “ you must 
not expect me to engage in all the sports your imagination 
can suggest — it will not do — I must look to the future.” 

“ Now you are patronizing Theodore Harper; he does 
well as an original, but any imitation of him will be puerile 
and flat.” 

“Not at all,” rejoined Clarence; “I admire him much, 
but I feel no desire to pattern by any one ; but I know that 
there is a great deal expected of me. You recollect I am 
the only remaining male of a very old family.” 

“ The last planting of an aristocratical tribe !” exclaimed 
Frazier, with a malicious smile. “Well, I can’t lose much 
caste by my profligacy — my father was one of the demo- 
cracy — one of the people.” 

“ I am just entering into business,” continued Clarence; 
“ and my friends are steady, sober Quakers. Any careless- 
ness, on my part, will not only be displeasing, but will 
eventually deprive me of fortune. I hold no claim on my 
uncle’s property — I am only an adopted child — I dare not 
disappoint him — it would be ruinous to me.” 

“ Why need you ? Can you not enjoy life without making 
shipwreck ?” 

“ My natural love for stimulants,” replied Clarence, leads 
me, (I well know it), to dissipation; I have struggled 
against it ; if I give ground at one point a floodgate 
opens upon me with irresistible force.” 

“ I swear, cried Frazier, you were made for your friends — 
that you are the very soul of conviviality ; all that is jovial 
and witty. Clarence, we will not give you up without a 
struggle.” 


198 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Listen, Herman; my course at college, this last year, lias 
left me many regrets — I may say poignant remorse.” 

“ In what respect do you find yourself a subject of 
remorse ?” asked his friend ; “lam very sure you never 
kept bad company.” 

“ Our habits were bad,” replied Clarence; “ decidedly 
so ; and you must feel it was improper.” 

“ How could that be ?” inquired Herman, “I am certain 
our club was composed of first-rate spirits ; minds of bright 
and transcendent aspirations — the very cream of human 
nature — none of your mongrel breed — none of your dregs 
from the reservoir of society; you must own that for genius, 
intelligence and refinement, they could not be surpassed.” 

“ I know all that, but ” 

“ No buts in the case, Clarence,” cried Frazier, “ while 
we are confined to the fellowship and sociability of such 
companions, who can find fault ? What harm can result 
from frequently meeting — taking a few glasses, and singing 
a few songs ?” 

“But it does not end there,” exclaimed Duval; “no, 
that is the first step ; by degrees we lose our refinement 
and taste, and become willing to herd with the doubtful — 
the low, and finally, the depraved. We have taken the 
first steps — let us pause — reflect ; a few more will lead 
us to irretrievable ruin — endless perdition; is it not easier 
to retrace this one degree than to wade back upon a sea of 
transgressions, or sink deeper and deeper into a pool of pol- 
lution, whose rank and fetid surface is enough to contami- 
nate a universe?” 

“Go on brother,” cried Frazier, waving his hand with 
mock gravity. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


199 


“ Sacrificing onr all, and not only that, but drawing with 
us others, who, but for us, might have been innocent and 
happy.” 

“ Huzza for temperance, ” cried Frazier, springing to his 
feet ; “ you are getting up opposition to Father Mathew — 
you are an aspiring dog.” 

Just then a noise was heard in the hall. 

“ I did not know you expected company here,” said 
Clarence, reproachfully.” 

“ They sometimes come without being expected ; how- 
ever, I will be candid, you are caught — fairly caught, 
and ” 

“ I cannot stay,” said Clarence, buttoning up his coat. 

The door opened, and as the visitor entered Duval tried 
to escape, and found himself in the arms of his old asso- 
ciates. 

“ By all that is sacred I hold you fast,” said his friend. 

“ You shall not escape,” said another. 


200 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


€ 1 ) Ejitt r 19. 

Thou strik’st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name ; 

Thou strik’st the young hero— a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame. — Burns. 

Other gentlemen came in, until the room was pretty 
well filled ; Clarence was introduced to new associates, ca- 
ressed and flattered until his new-fledged regrets and good 
resolutions began to vanish like wax before the sun, until 
they were all dissolved. He caught the contagion of mirth 
and gayety from those who surrounded him. 

What a common tableau is here presented to the reader — 
an episode in the life of almost every young man — yet how 
many have fallen victims, willing victims to intemperance, 
by the temptations offered in social wit, talents, hilarity and 
wine ! 

“ I am glad to see you, Duval, ” said a third, “ very glad 
to see you, ’pon my soul I am.’’ 

“ Gentlemen, one and all,” cried Frazier, as he handed 
them chairs, “ Mr. Clarence Duval has come to the deter- 
mination to relinquish the felicity of life, and join the tem- 
perance society.” 

“ The devil you have,” said young Symes, turning to 
Duval, “I thought you were a man of more refined taste ; 
that your enjoyment of the good things of this life was too 
exquisite to permit you to patronize a humbug ” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


201 


“ And forget the pleasures of a glorious hot punch, or a 
bottle of champagne, ” added Frazier — “for Heaven’s sake, 
pause, sir.” 

“ Are you going to the Tabernacle to hear that old rip 
propound the constitution of the Order — to flourish his ana- 
thema against the vicious qualities of liquor. I swear it is all 
gammon; I never heed a word they say — it is all in my eye!” 

“ They generally put down a half pint of liquor before 
they begin, in order to engender luminous ideas, so they 
may make a bully speech, and so soon as they lie themselves 
dry they take a little for the sake of digestion ; yes, gentle- 
men, all temperance preachers have the dyspepsia. 

“That is a fact,” cried Symes; “they talk very solemnly 
to you scapegraces, you gulpers, you rum-jug stoppers, you 
sponges of alcohol, about meddling with ardent spirits at all ; 
but they are the greatest set of villains outside of purgatory.” 

“ Put one of them in a dark corner,” said Frazier, where 
the odoriferous fumes of a prime flask of good old peach 
strikes the olfactories, and they will scent it out like a dog 
after quails, and if they find it out I pity the man what 
drinks after them ; and as for Dr. D ” 

“ Oh, heavens ! is that old rip going to lecture ? Why, 
he would drink as soon as I would, and you all know that I 
am not backward when it comes to the pint .” 

“ Never — never !” cried several voices. 

“For my part,” said a demure-looking man, with his 
eyes raised in hypocritical modesty, “ I can’t see how an 
ardent young spirit can give up all the bright things of life 
and settle down with the thoughts and feelings of musty 
oid age — ^at twenty-two, ay, sometimes sooner. But say, 
Duval, what has convicted you ?” 


202 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Remorse — remorse!” said Frazier ; “does he not re- 
present a victim of vicious habits ? Does he not look like 
the 4 haunted man/ with his brow of stern pride, and a 
thousand devils winking about the corners of his mouth and 
eyes, and his sonorous voice, like the chime of a Christmas 
bell, merry and full as a Bohemian organ grinder’s ” 

“ And wit like a bowie-knife,” added Symes, “ and rich 
relations old enough to die.” 

“But Clarence has a conscience,” exclaimed Frazier. 

“ The devil he has !” cried Finner ; “ let him use it, 
and he will soon find it as pliant and giving as an old 
rubber shoe. Ah ! that’s right, Herman, hurry up the 
cakes !” The servant enters with glasses, champagne 
basket, Ac., Ac. 

Clarence Duval, dreading the ridicule of his friends, and 
yielding himself a willing victim to the temptations besetting 
him, at last threw aside his cloak, and declared they were 
too many for him — that it was useless to contend ; and 
sinking gracefully back in his chair, said — 

“ Have it as you will, boys ; but this is the last time.” 

“ Positively the last time !” cried one. 

“ Mr. Duval’s last evening !” cried a second. 

“ The last evening of Duval’s benefit !” said Symes. 

“ Clarence Duval appears upon the boards positively for 
the last time !” exclaimed Sandford. 

The last time ! 

How often has that word leaped from the lips of the evil 
doer. The last time ! Oh, yes, the last time ! says the 
poor deluded victim of the bowl, as he rises in the morning 
with throbbing temples, dizzy brain and parched lips, his 
feverish pulse, trembling limbs, his disordered mind grasp- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


203 


ing at the shadows of embryo thoughts, that flit so rapidly 
and mysteriously through his head ! Yes, this is the last 
time ! But when night has wrapped her mantle around a 
sleeping world, the steaming liquor is before him, and 
with the same pliancy he yields himself up to the same 
insatiable thirst, and grasps with avidity the “ poisoned 
chalice.” 

“ Oh, I have said that, Clarence, a thousand times,” said 
Sandford, “ myself ; but I am getting on bravely now !” 

Sandford was a very young looking man, (if man he 
might be called). His complexion was fair and girlish, soft 
blue eyes, with finely-chiseled features, which bespoke the 
sentimentalist, the poet or the lover, rather than the 
debauchee. 

“ Temperance has to knock under to such arguments as 
these,” said Frazier, pointing to the table on which the 
punch was being compounded. 

All was now confusion. The many voices mingled with 
the sharp popping of the champagne bottles, the rattling of 
spoons and oyster-shells. They drew their chairs to the 
circular table, and recklessly seized the flowing cup. The 
wild laugh, the pithy anecdote, the harmless jest, the pi- 
quant jeu d’ esprit passed round with the first libations ; but 
every cup increased the hilarity, and brought up the 
coarser emotions of the heart and the most glaring absurdi- 
ties of the brain. 

“ By heavens ! I abjure thee, temperance !” exclaimed 
Symes, holding the goblet to the light ; “ how, in the name 
of Bacchus himself, could you think, Duval, of closing 
your lips upon such nectar as this — drink fit for Jove 
himself 1” 


204 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ I acknowledge it is delicious,” said Duval, upon 'whom 
it was beginning to have its effect ; “but if4t had not been 
for your company I should have gone home or to the 
Tabernacle, and perhaps ” 

“And perhaps,” interrupted Frazier, “heard us thrashed 
like the devil !” 

“ Temperance will come in good play when a man gets 
married and settles down with a family — that is, if one 
prefers it,” said Sandford. 

“I, for one, swear independence. Come, Clarence, down 
with that glass and fill a bumper,” said Symes, “ and 
give us one of your old songs. Come, cheer up ! you look 
like you had been sold to pay taxes.” 

“ Yes, Clarence, remember it is your last night,” said 
Herman. 

“ Positively the last !” repeated Symes ; “ here’s to you 
— fire away and give us your ‘ Hip ! Hip ! hurra !’ ” 

Clarence braced himself up by the arms of his chair ; his 
dark curly hair stood out from his brow ; his deep, mysteri- 
ous eyes, full of thought and sensualism, flashed with fire 
“ like sparks from smitten steel.” In his right hand he 
held a glass of wine, and the other, firmly closed, rested on 
the table : 

Come send round a bumper up to the brim, 

He who shrinks from a bumper I drink not to him ! 

Here’s to the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue 
Or lustre it may, so the heart is but true ! 

Charge ! hip ! hip ! hurra ! 

They all drink, and Clarence sings on : 

Come, charge high again, boys! now let the full wine 
Leave space in the brimmer where daylight may shine ! 

Here’s the friends of our youth, though of some we’re bereft, 

May the links that are lost but endear what is left! 

Charge! hip! hip! hurra! 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


205 


Come, once more a bumper, then drink as you please ! 

For who could fill half-way to toasts such as these ? 

Here’s our next joyous meeting — may the weather be clear! 

May our hearts be as bright, and may Clarence be there ! 

Charge! hip! hip! hurra! 

They all drink as the song is finished, and the pale-faced 
youth, proposes a bumper to Tom Moore, author of the 
song just sung. 

“ Oh ! hang it all !” cried Frazier, as they emptied their 
glasses ; “ this is too classical for me. I will give you 
something more natural or Christy-cal 

<( Oh ! when I am dead and gone to rest, 

Lay the bottle by my side ; 

Let revelers gay to my funeral come, 

For with them I have lived and died! 

In some deep gutter I’ll lay me down, 

And dream forever more, 

That I am drunk as a loon, in an old bar-room, 

With plenty of liquor in store J” 

The loud cheers which followed were interrupted by a 
mysterious rap at the door. 

“Is that you, Doctor ?” exclaimed Frazier, as he unlocked 
the door, and let in a man of fine appearance. “Why, 
you come with a face as grave as Banquo’s ghost. Come, 
here ’s a seat.” 

“ Not for me ; you know I never drink,” said the stran- 
ger, looking around the table. 

“We are a godly set, Doc, and it is no use to preach — 
hie! — to hus! — now, so evacuate the premises, if you please, 
and do-n’t be for lec-turing hus, now!” 

“ I did not come to lecture — it does no good.” 

“ No — come take a glass with us, Doc — it will be bene- 


206 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


ficial to tlie coats, of your stomach. Here is the cham- 
pagne, Doc — and here are the oysters, the vinegar and the 
hot punch.’ ’ 

“ You had just as well sing psalms to a dead horse, as 
to place temptations in his way. I tell you, Symes, he never 
drinks — never !” 

“ Never drinks !” replied Symes ; “ then put him out — 
out with him, he has no business here !” 

“ No ! he shall have his say. Hurrah for our chaplain ! 
blaze away, Doctor — never mind them! Frazier, can’t 
we make him up a pulpit — pro tern.?” 

“ Excuse me, gentlemen,” said the new comer, weaving 
his hand ; “I have come on business. Is there a young 
man here by the name of Sandford ?” and he looked anx- 
iously from face to face. » 

“I am the man !” replied the toaster of Tom Moore — 
“ what have you to say to me, Sir Parson ?” 

“Your presence is required at home, sir, and I have 
pledged my word to have you there as soon as possible — 
so come on.” 

“ I will not go, that’s positive,” cried the youth ; “ it is 
all a ruse to get me out. I understand all the movements 
of the game, by thunder ! — can ’t a man do as he pleases 
in this free land ? I am an American, Doctor .” 

“ Not always, sir ; you must go. When I get out, I will 
tell you why you have been sent for. Come, Sandford, be 
reasonable.” 

“ I guess you will, sir,” replied Sandford, the blood 
rushing to his temples. “ I should like to know who dares 
say must to me !” 

“ Come, Mr. Sandford, it is useless to refuse,” replied 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


207 


the stranger ; “ if I must tell you th,e truth, to get you 
home, your sister, sir, is dying, and wants to see you.” 

“ Yes, I know she is,” replied the reckless youth, coolly 
sipping his unfinished glass. “The last time it was mother, 
and when I got home, she was eating ice cream. I thought 
she was taking it coolly. USTo sir ! you can ’t come it over 
me with that story ! It has been tried once too often. 
Here, fill my glass, by thunder — I’ll stick to you, boys, as 
long as I can stand !” 

His heartless barbarity struck even his lawless compan- 
ions with disgust, and Frazier, after much difficulty, suc- 
ceeded in getting him up from the table, and, with the 
assistance of the most sober ones, prepared him for his exit. 
Uttering the most loathsome curses, he was dragged out 
by the powerful grasp of his conductor ; the door was again 
closed, and the revelers renewed their potations. 

The gap which the absence of Sandford made in their 
circle, was soon forgotten, and they laughed, drank, and 
cracked jokes as if nothing had transpired to interrupt their 
party. 

The night was pretty far advanced when the all-subdu- 
ing power of the various mixtures began to work upon 
Duval. At first, it enlivened him. His wit and pleasantry 
were irresistible, but soon they gave way to the soporife- 
rous qualities of the stimulants, and he began to nod to and 
fro, and finally fell into a hideous and unnatural slum- 
ber. The others drank until perfectly intoxicated; they 
then became uproarious, some singing disgusting strains ; 
some cursing and raving in temporary insanity ; some 
laughing with the diabolical malignity of a Satan, at 


208 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


the prostrated form of Clarence, boasting, in coarse lan- 
guage, at the conquest they had gained. 

Frazier and Symes, naturally petulant and restive, sepa- 
rated themselves from the rest of the party, and began to 
quarrel. The dispute commenced about the pilgrim fathers, 
and ended in a political discussion, the merits of which 
were lost in the noise and confusion of the disputants. 
"Words ran high, until they attracted the attention of the 
others, who hastened up to them ; each took sides with his 
favorite, until they were pretty well divided and matched, 
then words gave place to blows — the noise and tumult was 
tremendous. 

The cry of. one party was to theirs — to cut the Fourth of 
July under the eyes of his adversary ; and they shouted 
back — to imprint the Declaration of Independence on the 
noses of their enemies. Chairs came into requisition, and 
flew, like winged creatures, through the air. Their social 
and refined meeting was ending in a drunken broil — a 
bloody fight. 

Gradually the battle subsided, as the belligerents were 
knocked down, or sank, out of breath, and exhausted by 
exertion, which their enfeebled bodies could not sustain, 
and there was nothing to be heard but the dull, tubby 
breathing of the conquered revelers. 

“ Their feeble tongues 
Unable to take up the cumbrous word 
Lie quite dissolved. Before their maudlin eyes 
Seem dim and blue, the double tapers dance 
Like the sun wading through the misty sky; 

Then sliding soft, they drop confused above 
Glasses and bottles, pipes and gazetteers 
As if the table e’en itself was drunk.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


209 


There lay Clarence Duval upon the floor, for he had 
slided down from the, sofa, unconscious of the storm that 
was raging around him. The sun was high up in the 
heavens when he awoke from his torpid slumber. Scarcely 
had he opened his eyes before an excruciating pain shot 
across his brow; his lips were parched with heat; his pulse 
wild and feverish ; his rich hair lay in damp, massy tangles 
upon his clammy temples. A crust of coagulated spume, 
exuded from the stomach, lay stiff and thick upon his 
model moustache, and mattery gum oozed in yellow beads 
from the corners of his inflamed and lusterless eyes. His 
shirt-bosom was seamed and besmeared with liquor and 
cigar juice ; his vest collapsed and awry ; his cravat, with 
its butterfly bow, crumpled and turned hind-part before ; 
his pants tucked up by the tops of his boots until they had 
lost all conservative power, yielding nothing to the strenu- 
ous exertion of the wearer to replace them in their former 
positron*. 

He looked around the apartment, like one in the horrid 
throes of nightmare ; by degrees, his senses brought back 
to memory the events of the past night ; reflections terrific, 
virulent came crowding upon him. The lamps were shat- 
tered; the vessels of their reyelry were smashed in a 
thousand pieces scattered under and about the table; 
bottles and hats piled in pyramids upon the “ festive 
board ;” the punch, in which had floated the brilliant 
thoughts, the racy anecdotes, the timely jest, the ingenuous 
pun, presented now a dead sea — upon the surface of which 
floated bits of crackers, rinds of cheese, almonds, half- 
smoked cigars, half-burned lighters, and champagne corks. 

The chairs lay broken in confusion about the apartment. 

18 


210 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Some poor, sickened wretches had disgorged their over- 
charged and rebellions stomachs on the hearth-rug and had 
spouted the obnoxious decoction over the sides of the man- 
tlepiece. Some were lying on the floor — some on the sofas, 
and others were reclining against the side of the room with 
bloody faces and blackened eyes. 

Clarence walked forth from that infernal chamber with a 
faltering step and dizzy brain. He felt as if his brow was 
pressed by the poisoned band of Orcus and that “ it would 
not come away.” 

It was a glorious November morning ; the sunlight lay in 
sheets of gold upon the waters of the bay, and the breeze 
from the ocean was bracing and vivifying ; but what cares 
the drunkard for the beautiful scenes of nature or art ? He 
stumbles on with a curse ; his muddled brain can scarce 
retrace his footsteps to his rooms. He throws himself upon 
his bed to sleep off the horrors which now possess him. 
The inebriate sells a pearl of the soul for every drop he 
drinks — a gem of hope for every cup he sips, until the im- 
mortal soul is bartered by piecemeal to this dark tempter. 
Begin as he may, the finale is the same — there is no peace, 
no trust, while his fingers tamper with the scorpion’s drug, 
that palsies the heart and maddens the brain. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


211 


Cjjaptn 20. 

Claud. And she is excedingly wise. 

D. Pedro. In everything but in loving Benedict. — S hakspeare. 

Deader, we will now enter *Mr. Temple’s tea parlor. It 
is just six o’clock in the evening, and a clear coal fire 
enlivens the hearth. The gas chases the crouching 
shadows from every corner of the apartment. The dark 
curtains are over the closed windows to exclude the chill 
air, and give a picture of comfort and cheerfulness within. 
Mrs. Lacy, formerly Miss Paulina of Wolf-Gap memory, 
presides at the tea-table, in that quiet, staid way peculiar 
to old Virginia housekeepers. Elinor is seated, in child- 
like grace, on an ottoman at her father’s feet, leaning on 
the arm of his chair and reading the Siftings of the Daily 
Times. Mr. Temple looks older, much older; his locks 
are quite white, but his general appearance bespeaks better 
health and more elaborate strength and constitutional 
powers. He looks like “ a man of sorrows and one 
acquainted with grief;” yet still we can read resignation 
and patience on the placid lineaments of his face. Mr. 
Lacy, a noble, manly-looking gentleman, is occupied at a 
side-table with a periodical. Kate Fairmont is tuning the 
strings of her guitar, on the sofa, looking very lovely, but 
very busy. 

Behind Mrs. Lacy’s chair stands Lunnun, the old house- 
servant from the Gap. He was emancipated with the rest 


212 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


of Mr. Temple’s negroes, but would not leave “ the child- 
ren,” as he called them. He is faithful and trustworthy — 
the executor of his mistress’ will. See how stately he 
stands — his arms folded across his breast, the large balls 
of his eyes raised, but his vision directed downward, watch- 
ing the antic motions of a little pet dog, basking himself 
before the fire, which it did not feel willing to leave yet it 
could not find a position that precisely suited its tempera- 
ment — -sometimes it would draw up its feet — sometimes 
stretch its paws to the grate, then rise up slowly and shake 
its sides to turn-round and lie. down again. 

Lunnu'n was fond of soliloquizing, very methodical in his 
proceedings, and so very precise and neat in his person 
that one would suppose it impossible to improve his appear- 
ance,- yet on Sundays he indulged in sundry excelsiors, and 
if you chanced to meet him with his kid .gloves and silver- 
headed cane, you would: think he was going “ to meet 
Johnny Boo.ker at: the Bowling-Green.” 

“ Only listen, papa,” said Elinor, turning quickly to 
Mr. Temple, then blushing slightly she turned over the 
paper. 

“I am all attention, daughter.” 

“ Oh ! it is nothing, only the arrival of Clarence Duval 
at Judson’s Hotel.” 

“ When?” 

“ On Saturday.” 

“ The very day we arrived !” cried Kate, laying down 
the guitar. 

“ Yes, and he is the very young gentleman we noticed 
on the New World.” 

“And not called on us yet! — we must hunt him up.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


213 


“ I think, brother, it would be more prudent to await 
Mr. Duval’s pleasure. If he wishes to cultivate our ac- 
quaintance, he can easily find us.” 

“ Perhaps he is sick; and as his uncle is an old friend, 
and has written to me to look over him a little, I think it 
my duty to do so.” 

“ If it is the same gentleman we saw on the boat,” said 
Kate, naively, “I should think he could take good care of 
himself.” 

“ His uncle gives him a fine character,” replied Mr. 
Temple, “ and no doubt he will greatly add to our family 
circle.” 

Kate colored, and silently took up the guitar again. 

“ If he resembles his father, we shall find him very 
interesting,” said Mrs. Lacy; “I can remember, when 
Clement Duval was the life of every social meeting — per- 
haps a little too careless in his duties — too fond of gay 
life — but very amiable in disposition.” 

“ Yery amiable people, sister, are always popular — very 
amiable people please everybody, because they adapt them- 
selves to every one’s caprices, wishes, views, and opinions. 
Clement Duval was always wild and reckless, and it is a 
wonder to me, he has retained his station, and increased 
his fortune.” 

“That,” said Mr. Lacy, laying down his book, “is be- 
cause he reformed — he was, at one time, on the brink of 
ruin — he drank very hard, but paused on the threshold of 
degradation — commenced a new course, and proved his 
manhood by resisting temptation, and turning a cold 
shoulder to his profligate companions.” 


214 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ He deserves a great deal of praise,” said Mrs. Lacy; 
“I am very sure, few follow his example now-a-days.” 

“ Now-a-days ! why bless your soul, sister,” said Mr. 
Temple, smiling, “the world was always as degenerate as 
it is now.” 

“ And old ladies just as malicious — but tell me, brother, 
you doniot expect the gentleman to take up his abode with 
us ?” 

“ No, no — he does hot need as close vigilance as that. 
I am only requested to give him good advice, and keep an 
eye on his proceedings as far as I can.” 

Just then the bell rang, and Clarence Duval entered the 
parlor. 

- Reader, not the individual we left brooding over his 
misspent hours, his prostituted talents, with bitter remorse 
and contrition — but the elegant, the refined, the intel- 
lectual, fashionable, high-toned, aristocratic, and fascinating 
Clarence Duval. He had dozed off his stupor on Sunday — 
made his vows of reformation — cut away with disgust, the 
filthy testations of his Saturday night’s debauch — and after 
putting himself in his best attire, hastened to visit the 
Temples in Tenth street. 

The reception given him by his father’s old friends, was 
truly gratifying. He found himself in an interesting 
circle — his conversational powers revived and improved 
with the stimulus given by the eagerness and undivided 
attention bestowed on him. 

Clarence was formed by nature to please ; his faultless 
form, adorned with all the strength of manhood, yet soft 
and flexible in attitude and motion ; his fine face ; his 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


215 


insinuating address ; his easy, self-confident manners ; his 
well-stored mind ; his poetic thoughts ; his classical stores, 
all combined to render him irresistible — at least so said the 
ladies of Tenth street — so thought Kate Fairmont, as she 
glanced at him from behind the guitar, as she carelessly 
rested it against her cheek. 

Mr. Temple poured a shower of reproaches upon his 
young friend, for being so long in the city without calling, 
especially as they had been expecting him. 

Mrs. Lacy thought it selfish to expect so much of Mr. 
Duval, there was so much to charm the eye, and engage 
the attention in the city — they ought not to have wished 
the sacrifice. 

Mr. Temple said that Mrs. Lacy always espoused the 
cause of the delinquent. To which Mr. Duval gallantly 
replied, “that he was willing to plead guilty, in order to 
be honored by such a fair advocate — but to be candid,” 
continued he, “ I should have been here on Saturday 
evening, but on my way I met some old friends, who in- 
sisted on my spending the evening with them, and ever 
since I have been suffering with a severe headache.’ ’ 

“ It was, no doubt, produced by riding in the cars,” 
said Mrs. Lacy, “ it always affects me just so.” 

“Perhaps it is the influenza — it is very prevalent, and 
always deranges the head.” 

“ Do you use the Homoeopathic or Allopathic medi- 
cines ?” asked Mrs. Lacy. 

“I seldom use any kind — my present indisposition will 
soon wear off.” 

“I recommend Mrs. Jarvis’s cough candy,” said Elinor — 
“ it is my panacea.” 


216 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Or a cold bath,” said Mr. Temple; “ nothing like it, 
sir.” 

“ Or an evening at Christy’s,” said Kate slyly. 

“ All these prescriptions may be good in their way, but 
if we live temperately in all things, we would need but few 
visits from the doctor,” replied Mr. Temple. 

“ You should have been with us on Saturday evening, at 
the Tabernacle ; we had a fine lecture on temperance.” 

Mr. Duval was very sorry he had not been with them. 

“ A fine appeal,” said Mr. Lacy. 

“ Perhaps,” said Elinor, mischievously, “Mr. Duval is 
not quite as ardent in the cause as you^are.” 

“ How could he be ?” said Mr. Temple, sighing. 

“I am an advocate for temperance,” replied' Duval, 
“ but ; not for the Temperance Society.” 

“ How do you separate them ?” asked Mr. Temple. 

“ I do not believe in force. If a man is inclined to be 
sober and virtuous, he will be so ; if he loves the bottle, no 
law or restraint, can entirely reform him, and all pretension 
toitis hypocrisy— a man must act from freedom, or the act 
is not his own,” said Clarence. 

“ Then all church services should be dispensed with — 
the religion of Jesus Christ needs no advocates-^— no facili- 
ties to bear.it through the universe. Drunkenness is only 
one of the sins, against which the warfare of virtue must 
be constantly waged.” 

“ The world, Mr. Temple,” replied Duval, “ will never 
become thoroughly converted to temperance. Surely the 
advocates of the Order cannot indulge the chimerical idea, 
that the period will ever arrive, when ardent spirits, or an 
appetite for stimulants will cease to exist among men.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


217 


“ Neither does the Christian hope that until the period 
of God’s vast decree, that either sin, or the propensity for 
its indulgence, will cease to exist, while man moves in 
freedom of will, a finite being ; yet his divine Maker has 
left open an avenue to his heart, through which the holy 
principles of truth and love may force their way to his inner 
nature.” 

“Mr. Temple,” said Duval, “ God himself has, in the 
constitution of man, laid the foundation for this evil. In 
our natural condition, the organization of man seems to 
require, for the preservation of health, a certain degree of 
stimulus.” 

“Agreed. Proceed, sir.” 

“ Among the epicures and gourmands of civilized life, 
this opinion is universally advanced and sustained. Its no- 
toriety would seem to argue, that the use of it is among 
the necessities of life. The Turk must have his pipe — the 
German also. The Spaniard would smoke his cigar in the 
face of the world. The American prefers to chew the nox- 
ious weed, and he does it in the glory of his republican 
rights, to the horror of the housekeeper, and in defiance of 
Turkey carpets and flowered hearths. Nor is this love of 
stimulant limited to the physical properties of man. His 
whole intellectual being demands excitement and impetus. 
Ancient history overflows with evidences of this peculiarity 
of our nature. The Olympic games ; the public shows 
and pageantry of their conquests ; the horrid yet intensely 
exciting scenes of the gladiatorial arena ; the terrific bull- 
fights, so full of interest to the old Castilian; carnivals ; the 
scenes of the drama ; the stupendous wars of invasion and 
conquest that have merged races, and changed the whole 


218 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


structure of human society, with a thousand of more 
modern excitements, such as national ballads, agitating 
elections — the love of arms.” 

“ Man, then, in this mental and physical position, needs 
stimulus. Let me ask you, my young friend, has not God 
furnished him every delight — every sentiment of ambition — 
every inducement to intellect — every perfection to man’s 
physical organization — every wonder in nature — every 
sympathy of soul — every inducement that belongs to the 
grandeur of immortality, inviting him to pursue the journey 
of life rationally, happily, and consistent with the preroga- 
tives of the children of God ? Why should man feel the 
want of stimulus to pursue the journey of life ? If he 
turns to the right, science beckons him on to unexplored 
regions, where the intellect unwinds its boundless folds; 
Religion erects her temples ; Love sports his resistless at- 
tractions; Hymen keeps his lamp burning on the sacred 
altar ; countless affections, graces, sympathies, and suscepti- 
bilities cluster about his heart, like tutelar angels, to guard 
him in his duty ; and, above all, that broad anchor that 
holds him * sure and steadfast,’ amid the fearful tempest to 
which he is ever exposed, while tossing upon the wide ocean 
of being. I mean prayer and communion with his Maker.” 

“ Yes, but man must not be forced to temperance ; it 
is not a crime amenable to law.” 

“ I am not so sure but it should be, my dear young 
friend,” exclaimed Mr. Lacy. “ It often leads to the 
blackest acts of man’s turpitude.” 

“ So will ambition.” 

“ Yes, in the abstract; but it can never be a contagion. 
It is limited in its sphere of operations ; but the curse of 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


219 


drunkenness pervades every quarter of the globe, from the 
isle of the ocean to the regions of the Andes ; from the 
crowded corporations of Europe, to the hills and hamlets 
of New Holland ; from the haciendas of Mexico, to the 
villages and cities of our own beloved land. I think, sir, 
yours is a weak position.” 

“ I do affirm, sir, that a man cannot be forced to reform, 
if it is an act of his own free will.” 

“ The drunkard, sir,” cried Temple, bitterly, “has no 
free will.” 

“ He certainly has a propensity, and if he can, of him- 
self, master that propensity, he does not succumb, but, on 
the other hand, if he is forced by others to reform, the evil 
is not radically removed, but ” 

“ The Temperance Society uses no force,” said Temple ; 
“ it comes forth to aid, to strengthen. The divine progress 
of the Christian religion owes its triumphs (aside from its 
divinity) to its adaptation to the nature of man ; just so 
the Temperance Society. It goes forth a volunteer, with the 
weapons of faith, love, argument, humility, and persuasion. 
Kindly, affectionately does it invite the ear of humanity ; 
faithfully, in the language of irresistible force, does it depict 
to him the horrible evils of alcohol — resistlessly does it 
pour forth the facts that must convince the hearer, that it 
is a fountain of unhappiness in this life, and will eventually 
end in the sacrifice of eternal enjoyment. Then, as a ten- 
der father would discourse to a beloved child, comes its 
deep language of wild, energetic appeal. The Jieart first 
listens predisposed ; then follows earnest and thorough con- 
viction, with its consequences — a permanent reformation. 
This you call signing away your liberty !” 


220 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Yes, sir ; in signing the pledge, a man gives his con- 
science into the hands of a small community.” 

“ I suppose, then, when your grandfather signed the 
Declaration of Independence, he signed away his liberty — 
his right to act for himself ; he belonged to a smaller party 
than the Sons — a very limited party ?” 

“ Oh ! pardon me, Mr. Lacy,” said Clarence, “that was 
a different affair.” 

“ May I ask why ?” 

“The struggle was for freedom, sir.” 

“From what, young friend ?” 

“From tyranny — from slavery and death.” 

“ Ah ! Mr. Duval, where can you find more galling 
chains than those the fiend, Intemperance, rivets upon its 
victims ? Where can you find such abject slavery, as that 
arch-demon imposes ? It subdues both soul and body. 
The temperance preachers are brands plucked from the 
awful flame, spreading before mankind their own expe- 
rience with the tyrant ; the record of their fierce struggles 
with him, and the glorious story of their final conquest.” 

“ If a man can be forced from drinking, is it not better 
for him to yield to that power, than to let him plunge him- 
self into ruin ?” asked Temple. 

“And not only himself,” said Elinor, “ but all who love 
him ; bringing disgrace upon the innocent and pure.” 

“Suppose every man was a drunkard, would not this be 
a queer world ?” said Mr. Lacy. “ Yes, one mass of cor- 
ruption, disease, loathsome, disgusting, helpless beings, 
bending with palsied limbs ; some stupefied, with scarcely 
intellect enough to grope their way among the uncurbed 
tigers going forth to root up the lingering seeds of virtue. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


221 


by the unbridled fury of their desolating and savage pro- 
pensities ; where would be the million of spires that now 
point to the Redeemer — our universities ? The ocean, bloom- 
ing with the variegated colors of the world's nations, would 
be a wilderness of waters, troubled only by the winds of 
heaven and the rapine of human demons, knowing no law 
but the law of might. Earth would become all that we 
have been told of the nethermost regions." 

“I must say, gentlemen," cried Duval, “ that your 
tableaux are very impressive, and, no doubt, you are 
right." 

“ Would I could convince you, young friend," said Lacy, 
“of your erroneous view of the subject. Young men, just 
beginning life, with every desirable breeze in their sails, 
should not fail for the want of ballast." 

“ You call the Temperance Society ballast ?" asked 
Clarence. 

“ I do ; and as such, I recommend it to your consider- 
ation." 

“ College, I suspect," said Mrs. Lacy, “ is a poor place to 
learn sobriety." 

“ Decidedly so, madam," replied Duval ; “ yet we do 
sometimes find a student who stands alone, as it regards 
morality and sobriety. I had a classmate, who was the 
most punctual, the most industrious, energetic, temperate — 
and possessing at all times, and under all circumstances, 
perfect self-control ; yet, madam, he left college beloved 
and respected by all." 

“ Such instances are rare." 

“ Sir, when he entered college, we attributed, with one 


222 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


accord, his punctilious, scrupulous mode of proceeding, to 
sordid and selfish purposes, or want of courage.” 

“We are very apt to judge harshly,” said Mrs. Lacy, 
“of others, hut spare ourselves.” 

“Believe me, Mrs. Lacy, we found him highminded, 
over-generous, unselfish, and truthful ; he became our ora- 
cle — our test of human nature — our standard of moral 
worth — our judge and counselor. When we found him im- 
pregnable to our shafts of ridicule — our cutting insinua- 
tions, and malicious raillery, or, what was worse, our prac- 
tical jokes, which proved to be no jokes at all, we concluded 
that he lacked spirit, or that his views were the conse- 
quences of a meager nature. This idea, like the rest, was 
confuted by his daring courage — his entire forgetfulness of 
all animosities when danger threatened any of us.” 

“ He had a noble disposition,” remarked Mr. Temple. 

“ Sensitive to the quick, where honor was concerned, yet 
he could not be forced into a duel, or even into a quarrel.” 

“ Opposed to dueling from principle,” said Mr. Lacy. 

“ Just so,” replied Duval; “ he was decided against all 
games of chance, late hours, indolence, extra suppers, and 
never was known to taste ardent spirits.” 

“ I suppose you found him dull and uninteresting com- 
pany?” said Mr. Lacy. 

“ Hot at all ; his jest was always acceptable ; his laugh- 
ter contagious ; his satire inimitable ; his room was our 
court of justice, and he was the judge.” 

“Your description captivates me,” said Elinor, archly; 
“ so many good qualities ; pray, Mr. Duval, was your hero 
handsome ?” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


223 


“You would not call him handsome, Miss Temple, for 
he was not, by any means, a lady’s favorite ; he never 
sought the society of the drawing-room. Indeed, I never 
knew him to have a single female acquaintance, except a 
widow, who had a very profligate son ; he often visited 
the house, and used every means in his power to reform 
the son, but was unsuccessful.” 

“Did he never join in your sports ?” asked Mr. Temple. 

“ Heartily, while they remained, (what he considered) 
in reasonable bounds. I must confess, he was too 
rigid, too impenetrable. We always called him our chap- 
lain.” 

“ Was he poetical ?” asked Kate, timidly raising her eyes 
to the fine face of Clarence. 

“ Kot a vein of poetry in his whole composition ; his mind 
was a solid block of polished gold, without carving, fret- 
work, or filling.” 

“Ladies must be inquisitive,” said Mrs. Lacy, in her 
soft, apologetic way, “may I avail myself of the privilege, 
and ask the name of your paragon ?” 

“Madam, his name was Harper ; he ” 

“ Theodore ! our own Theodore ! I know it can be no 
other,” cried Mrs. Lacy, “it all sounds just like him.” 

“ How sanguine you are, Paulina ?” said Mr. Temple, 
laughing. “ Poor fellow, it is not very likely he ever found 
his way into a college.” 

“ Why not, brother, tell us why ?” 

“ Poverty, dear sister.” 

“What lien had poverty on such a spirit as his, rich in 
its powers, rich in its gifts, and powerful in its resources? 
I have been expecting all along to hear of him.” 


224 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“Mrs. Lacy, you do my friend justice; it is Theodore 
Harper, I speak of.” 

“ It could be no one else,” said Elinor, pale with excite- 
ment; “ he was such as you describe him in boyhood. He 
never could change.” 

“Where is he at present?” asked Mr. Temple; “for I 
have sought him in vain.” 

“In the city, practicing medicine. I hope he will prosper.” 

“He will succeed — he must succeed,” cried Mr. Temple; 
“that, Mr. Duval, is the spirit which keeps men from being 
drunkards. The only sober people are not those who have 
no taste for liquor.” 

“ I feel so proud to hear such news of my old hero,” 
said Mrs. Lacy ; “ I knew he would be a man some day.” 

“ I will send for him the first time I feel the least sick,” 
said Kate, merrily. 

“ Opposition !” exclaimed Elinor. “ I will get sick on 
purpose to try his skill.” 

“Doctor Harper !” said Mrs. Lacy; “well, wonders will 
never cease !” 

“ Doctor Harper !” said Elinor, as her head touched the 
pillow. That night she dreamed of Wolf- Gap — the play- 
ground in the apple orchard — the cliff where the woodbine 
bloomed so early and lingered so long after the blossoms 
on the hillsides had withered and died. She sat in a plea- 
sant nook, and Theodore was making her a crown of flowers 
and holly, while she sang 

“ Carry me back to Ole Virginny.” 

When Elinor told Hannah her dream, the latter asked if 
the flowers were white ; “ because” said she, “ if they were, 
it is a sign of a funeral.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


225 


Chapter 21. 

Jul. Not so; but it hath been the longest night, 

That e’er I watched, and the heaviest. — S hakspeare. 

Elinor had seated herself in a rocking-chair before the 
bright, clear fire, apparently in a very deep study, while 
Mrs. Lacy was busying herself in making things charming 
in the bed-room of her niece — beating up the pillows, then 
patting down the bed — talking first to Elinor and then to 
herself. 

“ Come, sit down, Aunt Paulina, and tell me why you 
and Mr. Lacy were so long engaged ? w r liy you did not 
marry before ? and why you have married at last?” 

“ Three good questions at once, dear; but as they all 
move on the same pivot, one answer will be sufficient — we 
were not ready.” 

“Well,” replied Elinor, laughing; “I think you must 
have had a great deal to do.” 

“ How glad I am to see you smile, child. Do you 
know you have been looking so very serious since your 
return?” 

“ Strange as it may seem, Aunt Paulina, I have never 
felt inclined to be even happy or cheerful since I last saw 
my poor wretched mother — how can I ever be so?” 

“At your age, child, cheerfulness is necessary.” 

“How often have I wished myself back in the moun- 
tains.” 


226 


Mrs. Ben Daret. 


“ You little simpleton !” said Mrs. Lacy, smoothing her 
hair back from her face ; “ leave this huge city for the 
‘backwoods !’ When I was your age, I could not have 
been better suited — our city quarters are so ample and 
snug. Bear me ! instead of moping about ‘ like the maiden 
all forlorn/ I should have been as gay as a lark. You 
must shake off this melancholy, indeed you must.” 

“ I do try, indeed I do.” 

“ Never mind, dear, you have been pent up so long, like 
a bird in a cage, that it is no wonder your spirits begin to 
fail. Never mind, w r e will make a visit, to-morrow, to 
Brooklyn and see the Yan Spankers — cheer ourselves up 
and be interesting.” 

“What would I not give to be gay like you!” 

“Like me, child? How simple you are! It could not 
be expected of one of your age,” said Mrs. Lacy, rocking 
herself rapidly to and fro. 

“ You could always make others happier.” 

“ The secret is this, dear — to be always happy your- 
self ; a miserable, yawning, sighing and whining, milk- 
and-water-natured person never added comfort to any 
circle.” 

“But everybody has not the same temperament.” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“ Some are more unfortunate than others.” 

“ The most unfortunate person in the world is he, or she 
(and especially she), who thinks that their griefs and 
sorrows are more poignant and interesting than other 
people’s — they use them, and pet them, and feed them — if 
by chance, any one tries to soothe them into forgetfulness 
or cheat them of a smile, they deem it sacrilege. No, 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


227 


dear, we must, repress our own feelings witliin our own 
hearts and live for the happiness of others.” 

“You always did — I know you did.” 

“It will not do to mourn over blasted hopes, lost 
dreams, or think, because you have been deceived in the 
character of one individual, that all mankind is a bundle 
of infirmity. Set the lamp a little farther back and I will 
try and tell you a short love story.” 

“ Oh ! do — I have not heard one of your tales for a very 
long time, dear aunt.” 

“ Once upon a time,” said Mrs. Lacy ; “a young gentle- 
man came to visit your father at the old homestead, our 
dear old mountain cottage, at the base of the Blue-Ridge, 
where you passed so many happy hours.” 

“ The only happy ones I ever knew.” 

“Well, you must not interrupt me, dear, or my old 
crazy head will be wool-gathering. As I was saying — 
Alfred Lacy came to spend the Christmas holidays with 
your father. They were called cronies — you know the 
men harp a great deal on old academical associations — he 
was very young, handsome, and decidedly fascinating, and 
withal of a rich and aristocratic family. The old Virgi- 
nians, you know, are proverbial for the tenacity with which 
they cling to the family tree. For my part, I did not feel 
prejudiced in his favor on account of his pedigree ; had he 
been poor and a humble tiller of the ground, I should have 
felt and nourished the same sentiment. I was young, and 
having lived always in retirement, was but a poor judge 
of human nature — always easily deceived.” 

“ You have not improved much, in that respect, by ex- 
perience.” 


228 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ May be not, child ; but then I looked only at the sur- 
face. Alfred Lacy, setting all partiality aside, was one of 
the finest looking men I ever saw.” 

“ He is better looking now than half the young — ” 

“ Pshaw ! keep still, child, or I shall never finish my 
story. He staid a month with us — such a short, brief 
month — it passed away on its locomotive wheels, and left 
the dull car of time, moving down with the stoppages of 
its breakers. He left us, with many assurances of a speedy 
return. Everything looked dull and gray after he left — 
the birds quit singing, and chill winds came down from the 
mountains ; the doors and windows were closed, and dark 
winter took up its silent quarters in the little green arbor ; 
long, dreary evenings came and went so much alike, that 
memory had no clue to distinguish them. 

At last, spring came lagging on, as it always did, smiling 
one day and frowning the next, like a coquette ; but when 
her warm breath had melted the ice-gems from the moun- 
tain’s brow, and sent a glow of rapture through the valleys 
and glades, decking the unfurrowed fields with the early 
primrose, and that 4 wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower/ 
the mountain daisy, * o’ clod or stane.’ 

“ Just after the Petersburg races were over, he returned, 
gay and lively ; he entertained us with animated descrip- 
tions of the sports. I confess, I never felt partial to such 
diversions ; on the contrary, I always nourished too much 
sympathy for the poor dumb creatures, worried and jaded 
to amuse minds that might find more rational means of en- 
joyment. However, it did not seem so erroneous in him, 
for all he said and did was au fait , at least, in my eyes. 
Love is like a heavy smoothing-iron, when warm, it presses 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


229 


out many wrinkles in the character of the beloved. To 
make my confession brief, I fell deeply and desperately in 
love, and was made completely happy by a proposal of 
marriage. How bright and beautiful the world looked then, 
to my ardent and sanguine heart ! I walked out into the 
apple orchard, to the old cider press, and gave vent to my 
girlish feelings ; I wept and laughed by turns. When I 
thought of leaving my mountain-home, with its wild grot- 
toes, its bold peaks, and its valleys of flowers, and the 
crystal waters that dripped so limpid to their rocky basin — 
scenes so dear tome — but pshaw! how foolish I am getting! 
Never be, child, as silly as your aunt.” 

“ Never ! I promise you,” said Elinor, with one of her 
quiet smiles. “ Go on, please.” 

“ Great preparations were making for our nuptials. A 
short time previous to the appointed time, my father was 
obliged to go down to Petersburg to transact some import- 
ant business (he always sold his crops there), and I went 
with him in order to attend to my trousseau. I was quite 
in a feeze. Everything was pleasant and kind of dreamy. 
I will not tell you that I was beautiful, because I am telling 
you a true story, no fiction — no Amanda Fitzallen ad- 
ventures !” 

“ I do not see why you are not bound to do yourself jus- 
tice,” said Elinor, “ for everybody that knew you, says you 
were very lovely.” 

“What everybody says, must, of course, be true,” replied 
Mrs. Lacy, smiling so benignly, as she spoke, that her 
hearer, if she had been ever so skeptical, would have 
needed no other proof to convince her, that the proverb 
was true in the present case. 


230 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ So, as I was saying, ” continued the narrator, “if I was 
not beautiful, I was, at least, an heiress, which, you know, 
is quite as attractive. It leaked out, by some means, that I 
was about to be married to young Lacy, and I soon became 
the ‘observed of all observers/ I dressed, too, very plainly 
— yes, as plain as a pipe-stem — you know I always did. I 
had my green calash on, and a vail over my face, sitting at 
a recess window, at the hotel, waiting the appearance of my 
father, who had promised to be in to conduct me to Mrs. 
Phepoe’s to purchase my wedding hat. While I sat indulg- 
ing honied cogitations, my ear was captivated by the name 
of Lacy. I instantly listened to the following conver- 
sation : 

“ ‘ Have you seen young Lacy’s bride?’ 

“ * Ho ! is she here ?’ 

“ ‘Yes, so it is said,’ replied a young lady. 

“ ‘ Miss Temple V asked the gentleman. 

“ ‘Yes, she is very beautiful !’ 

“ ‘ And very rich, and that is better — at least Alfred will 
find it so. I hope he may.’ 

“ ‘ How fortunate, dear, to have such a rich wife !’ 

“ ‘ Peculiarly so ! Our friend will make up his losses at 
the races. I wish he may marry her, for he owes me a 
round thousand, that he lost on the old Pocahontas.’ 

“ ‘ Love, I thought you never betted at horse-races,’ 
whined the lady, in a honeymoon cadence — ‘ you swore 
you never did !’ 

“ ‘ My dear, I never do, in a general way ; but the case 
was so plain, the temptation so strong, that I could not 
resist. It was obvious, very much so, to me, that the nag 
which was to run against my choice, was too heavy in the — ’ 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


231 


“ ‘ Pshaw !’ cried the young wife, gayly laying her hand 
on his lips, ‘ I do not wish to be initiated into the myste- 
ries of horse-racing !’ 

“ ‘ Forgive me, love, I will try and not offend again/ 

“ ‘ Miss Temple/ said the lady, * little dreams of the 
pitfall before her. If I was in her place, I would not let 
my fortune go to pay debts of honor, races, and scrapes. 
That young friend of yours, George, is very dissipated, 
drinks very hard — is he not a real drunkard ?’ 

“ ‘You should not, my angel, call a gentleman, especially 
a friend of your husband’s, by such names/ 

“ ‘ A gentleman should never forget himself, then/ 

“ ‘ It is all nonsense — a man cannot indulge a glass with- 
out being dubbed a toper ! it is villainous !’ 

“ ‘Alfred Lacy is, my dear, an intolerable drunkard, and 
you know it/ said the lady. 

“ ‘ He is a fine, jovial, high-minded fellow, and if he does 
occasionally take a glass too much he is none the worse 
for it.’ 

“ ‘ George, are you really taking Mr. Lacy’s part, or are 
you only teazing me ?’ 

“ ‘Only teazing you, love, because you are so opposed to 
our enjoying ourselves in our own way.’ 

“ * You may call it your, I am glad it is not my way.’ 

“ ‘ So am I ; but see, the carriage is at the door, and it is 
getting late.’ 

“ I sat for some moments perfectly absorbed in thought; 
puzzled by the unexpected intelligence I had gained — 
pained and mortified beyond expression.” 

“ ‘How deceitful this world is,’ said an old gentleman, 
who had been engaged with a pamphlet at the center-table, 


232 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


‘there is not a greater gambler or horse-racer living than 
George Smith/ 

“ ‘Ah! indeed, said I, for I perceived the speaker was 
addressing me/ ” 

“ He had been young Lacy’s greatest tempter — he had 
followed him with indefatigable energy, and now, that he 
finds him struggling in the web that he has laid for him, 
he sports over it ; the friendship of such men counts very 
little in time of need/ 

“ ‘ His wife is a beautiful woman/ said I, ‘ and it is to be 
hoped she will reform him/ 

“‘Who ever heard of a woman making her husband 
sober ! I defy an angel to come down from the third Hea- 
vens, and do it. If a man, with the help of his reason, 
can’t control himself, how can you expect a poor, weak, con- 
fiding woman to manage him ; no, there ought to be some- 
thing done to protect such men against themselves/ 

“ ‘ The Temperance Society is doing a great deal in some 
parts of the country/ remarked a dry -looking gentleman, 
with green spectacles, ‘ it has been the means of reforming 
many in the village I came from.’ 

“ ‘Yes, no doubt, and will grow and expand until its ban- 
ners wave from every civilized point ; but, sir, after moral 
suasion has done its best, there will still be a mighty, I may 
say, herculean work to perform. The temperance lecturer 
finds converts in those men whose worth and better feelings 
are too radical to yield at once to the love of liquor, but are 
comparatively stupefied by its influence — not entirely 
burnt out. Sometimes, in my country, a fire breaks out in 
the prairie grounds ; now, where the bottom is rich and the 
grass roots deep in the soil, though the fire burns strong 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


233 


and long, the spring rains and the summer sun bring it all 
up again as fresh and fine as ever ; but not so when the 
grass is wiry, and the soil loose, dry and porous, the fire 
strikes down and blackens it to the very quick ; just so the 
drunkard — a man with good principles and good natural 
feelings does not part with them in a jiffy.’ 

“ * The habitual drunkard lays himself open to every temp- 
tation ; there is no knowing what a man will do when 
drunk ; they dont know themselves — how can they V 

“ ‘Well, friend Jones, if a man gets in such a situation 
as that he ought to have a check — a law to keep him 
straight — moral suasion has nothing to do with brutes ; it 
does influence, as I said before, men who have souls/ 

“ I heard my father’s step along the hall, and hurried to 
meet him ; I left the old gentleman very much interested 
in the subject they were discussing ; which got the best of 
the argument I never knew. 

“ What I did or said for hours I have no recollec- 
tion of. 

“ The parlors were brilliant with lights, and crowded 
with the gay and fashionable ; my kind father, thinking 
to make me happy, whispered that Alfred Lacy would sbon 
make his appearance. I resolved to bury in my mind the 
hateful discovery I had made ; my word was given — I 
would not retract, but I determined to dedicate myself to 
the restoration of his moral nature ; I would pay his debts, 
sustain him — aid — watch over him — redeem him — be his 
tutelar angel — cheer him through trial, perhaps, degrada- 
tion. I had made up my mind to be the wife of an inebri- 
ate — I could not call him drunkard ; no, there was some- 
thing so disgusting, so revolting in the word drunkard, 
20 


234 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


wliat had it to do in common with the elegant, the refined, 
the spiritual lover ? Oh ! it was offensive to the delicacy 
of woman’s soul. Alfred came ; he was animated .and 
devoted — all that I could wish him to be. I soon forgot, 
in his presence, in the power of his fascination, the facts I 
had discovered. We left Petersburg, and returned to the 
mountains. 

“ Everything was arranged for our nuptials — even the 
day and the hour designated ; distant relatives were invited, 
and all the wedding paraphernalia examined and cri- 
ticised. 

“ A few days previous to the consummation 4 so de- 
voutly to be wished,’ my father was called suddenly 
to a neighboring village to transact some business; I 
requested to accompany him as I was always in the habit 
of doing; at first he objected to it, but a few caresses won 
his consent, and we left on horseback. We were returning 
gayly home, when my horse became suddenly very unruly, 
and before I could gather up my careless reins, he threw 
me several feet over his head, and in my fall, my right 
hand was so sprained that I could not use it in any way.” 

“ Poor, dear Aunt Lena,” said Elinor, kissing her cheek, 
to have such a fall, just when you were going to be mar- 
ried too /” 

“ Everything happens for the best ; but I could not con- 
ceive how that could be for the best while my hand pained 
me so ; but I saw plainly enough after a while. 

“ My father, left me at the little inn on the road side — you 
know the Cross-Keys ; it was then kept by Mrs. Butterfield, 
a very good, kind, respectable woman ; we had known her 
a long time ; my father promised to come for me before 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


235 


breakfast ; as it was very cloudy, be said lie was afraid to 
drive the carriage after dark. My kind hostess declared 
she would soon settle the pain in my wrist, and keep me 
safe and sound until his return ; good Mrs. Butterfield bound 
my sprain up in a hollyhock poultice, and after forcing me 
to drink a pint of ‘yarb tea/ declared me in a fine state of 
convalescence. 

“ The hollyhock preparation did act as a charm, and after 
supper it began to rain as hard as it could pour. I laughed 
and chatted with the good old lady, who thought to sport 
me out of the blues by talking about my approaching wed- 
ding, and telling me many wonderful occurrences, which 
went to prove ‘that there was many a slip between the cup 
and the lip/ 

“ ‘ But I think/ says the old lady, ‘ of all the sorrowful 
books I ever read, * Charlotty Temple’ beats all. Poor 
dear critter ! but didn’t she suffer I If I had been in her 
place I should certainly have put a period to my existern / 

“ Our conversation was here interrupted by a loud 
commotion at the stable-yard. My hostess looked alarmed 
— such yelping and whooping I suppose never was heard 
in a civilized place. 

“ ‘ What is it ?’ I asked, when I saw Mrs. Butterfield 
hastily returning from the window. 

“‘Why, nothing upon yearth ,’ replied she, ‘but them 
desperit fellows come back again. I told them over and 
over again that they should not stay here ; but I see they 
are determined to have their way. Go up, dear, to the front 
chamber, and don’t show your face down here. I will be 
up with you as soon as I get rid of these rowdies. I wish 
there was a law to keep them straight !’ 


236 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ I was nofc long obeying orders. I glided rapidly up and 
bolted my door. As I passed through the entry, I caught 
a glimpse of several figures disrobing themselves of wet 
hats and cloaks. 

“ In the days I am speaking of, those little inns always 
kept liquors of various kinds, which were generally drank 
by travelers, and were charged in the bill as a necessary 
appendage. Mrs. Butterfield had always borne a good 
character, but according to the custom of the times, and 
country she lived in, necessity compelled her to pursue the 
same course. To tell you the truth, my dear, they looked 
upon drinking liquor as a matter of course. To set out 
the decanter to every male visitor was not only a custom in 
the humbler walks of life, but in the most aristocratic circles, 
with this difference — the wines and liquors were more ex- 
quisite, and they were poured from a rich cut-glass decanter 
into precious goblets ; but the practice was the same, and it 
produced the same effects. Since the Temperance Society 
has done away so many of those pernicious fashions, every 
portion of the country has felt its beneficial influence, and I 
have no doubt ” 

“ Never mind the Temperance Society, dear aunt ; but 
tell me what became of you” 

“ Well, as I was sitting by the light of the huge pine 
fagot, that blazed on the hearth, turning over the leaves of 
the little book which Mrs. Butterfield had loaned me, 
I heard a tremendous bustle below — loud and vociferous 
sounds of merriment — the laughing of the negroes and the 
barking of dogs — cursing, swearing, scuffling and falling ; 
indeed, I cannot begin to tell you what a compound of 
multifarious noises came in alternate peals. After some 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


237 


time, a servant brought me a candle and some apples, with 
her mistress ’ compliments. 

44 4 What has happened below, Patty V 
44 4 Nothin', Miss Lena, only dem obstropolis fellows what 
old Missis sent away just afore you come.' 

44 4 Who are they ? — what do they want V 
“ 4 Law, Miss ! dey is only spreeing it ; and Missus says 
she does not t’ank them for coming here drunk, nohow ; 
and masrer gone, and marse Johnny is afeard of them, any- 
how. Missus says they is a descent set, and she has to 
keep not minding um — dat's all.' ” 

44 1 began to feel very uneasy, and went to the window 
to see how the weather looked. It was very dark, and 
the storm was increasing in its violence — one of our moun- 
tain tornadoes. The lightning was very vivid and frequent, 
showing at every flash the dark mountains in the distance. 
The roaring of the thunder was sometimes heard amid the 
the uproarious sounds below. I thought of my calm, 
peaceful home, and, although it was but a few miles, it 
seemed an immeasurable distance. The storm increased, 
and at every peal of thunder I heard some wild, incohe- 
rent expostulation, some blasphemous oaths addressed to 
Him who 

1 Plants his footsteps in the sea, 

And rides upon the storm. * 

Ah ! my dear child, that night I was initiated into the vo- 
cabulary of the drunkard. At last, for it seemed an age, 
Mrs. Butterfield came up, and hastily closed the door after 
her ; then drawing a long breath, she seated herself by the 
candle-stand which stood between us. 

44 4 How sorry I am all this has happened ! If it did not 
rain so hard I would send for your father.' 


238 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Just then we heard some one run up stairs. 

“ ‘ Mother ! mother !’ cried John, pushing open the door, 
‘they will come up — we can’t keep them down. They 
swear they saw the young lady at the window, looking out 
at the storm. Tom Slaughter says she shall drink with 
him !’ 

“ ‘ Give them some of that double ractified brandy, that 
your daddy brought up last Fourth of July — it will soon 
settle their hash, and they will roll over in piles — the drunken 
beasts ! coming to decent houses to cut up their devilment !’ 

“ ‘ They are coming up, mother — what shall I do V 

“ ‘Strike them down, one at a time ! Dear bless me ! it 
is too bad V 

“Johnny did as he was ordered — he struck down the first 
one that gained the top step. We heard him fall. 

“ ‘Never mind/’ cried Mrs. Butterfield, ‘’Squire Temple 
shall hear of all this to-morrow !’ 

“ ‘D ’Squire Temple !’ said a voice that pierced my 

very soul, and the next moment the door was pushed wide 
open, and in rushed two human beings, that looked like 
fiends from the lower regions. 

“I raised up involuntarily as they came in, and stood 
calmly awaiting the result of the unwelcome interruption.” 

“ Oh !” said Elinor, “I certainly should have fainted.” 

“I never was one of the fainting sort, darling ; but who 
should I recognize in one of those bloated, hideous-looking 
beings but Alfred Lacy — the fastidious, the fashionable 
and recherche ! 

“ ‘ Confound the luck — ladies, your most obe-dient,’ cried 
he, stumbling forward. ‘ Landlady, where did you start up 
such devilish fine game V 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


239 


“ ‘ That’s Miss Temple/ said Mrs. Butterfield ; ‘ you 
know well enough who it is, and if you lay the weight of 
your finger on her, you will be sorry — sorry enough for 
your impudence, I can tell you.’ 

“ ‘ Ah ! bless my stars ; I wish I may be eternally bl — 
liic! — if ever I had an idea — hie! — that I should have — hie ! 
— the ecstatic pleasure — hie ! — of see-hing Miss Tem-^9^. 
I wish I may be — hie ! — if she is not de-velish superior to 
what we expected. I wish the lightning may turn me to a 
cinder, if she is not the best looking girl in Amherst county-, 
by G — hie ! See, Slaughter, here’s the girl of my heart — 
the one I shall marry next week — hie ! — if I am not too 
d — hie ! — drunk.’ 

“ The companion he addressed had left the room, at the 
bidding of the landlady, and Alfred was swinging himself 
from side to side in the doorway, like a loose sign-post in a 
storm. 

“He made an attempt, at last, to approach me ; ‘ Alfred 
Lacy/ said I, ‘I am ashamed of you ; leave me instantly/ 

“‘No ! no! not so cruel, my lovely dam-sel — hie ! — I’ll 

go, if you are so d hie ! — particular. What if a fellow 

is a little snap-ped ? — only a little corned ; not so d-drunk, 
but just enough to make him kingly or glorious, my little 
wife — that is to be ! Now I am proud to — hie ! — acknow- 
ledge it. What a lucky dog ! Huzza ! Mrs. Butterfield — 
I am the boy in the Gap what shot the robin !’ 

“ ‘ Yes, and if you don’t put down them stars, just as fast 
as your drunken legs will let you, I’ll know why.’ 

“ ‘ I will not intrude — hie! — I see you are d hie! — 

aristocratic to-night, so I wish you a d good night — I 


240 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


do, by thunder ! Don't be so unforgiving, love ; this is my 
last spree.' 

“ As he left the room, I mentally exclaimed, ‘ That is the 
man I have chosen for my protector through a world of 
sorrow and tribulation ; that is the man that I have prom- 
ised to take the place of a noble, honest father ; he is se- 
lected as the arbiter of my fate — the foundation of my 
earthly happiness — the guardian of the goodly fortune 
which it has pleased my Maker to bestow upon me. No ! 
no ! never ! I dare not risk it.' 

“Mrs. Butterfield and myself sat up during the night, and 
heard, from time to time, the loud breathing of the human 
beasts which were scattered about the floors, too enfeebled 
to crawl to their beds. Groans, curses, and wild ravings, 
filled the measure of the night, and as soon as it was light, 
my father came for me. That night left a lasting impres- 
sion on my mind ; they were horrible realities — no work of 
the fancy. It all transpired before my vision. I felt no 
pity — no moving of compassion for my lover, but the most 
loathsome disgust. I felt debased at the thought of ever 
having had my name linked in any way with his. Oh ! 
how all these feelings were soothed by the benign reflection 
that it was not too late to save myself. 

“He wrote very penitential letters, but they were returned 
with all his favors, and only these words, ‘ I dare not 
marry a drunkard.’ 

“My father paid his debts, and set him off again in the 
world, free. He long since refunded the loan, with its in- 
terest." 

“ And he has never drank since ?" asked Elinor. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


241 


“No, his frolic at old Butterfield's was his last. I have 
seen him very seldom during that time, but you see how it 
has all worked around. To make a finish of it, love, when 
I saw Mr. Lacy again, when my father was on his death- 
bed, I could not but feel a great deal for him, to think how 
he had struggled on through all his difficulties, to subdue 
his infirmity ; I was fully convinced it was my duty to be- 
come his wife." 

“ I think so too," replied Elinor, “ and I am very sure 
you will never repent. He must be thoroughly changed. 
He says he has not drank a drop for fifteen years." 

“ At least." 

“ Then he has been faithful and true." 

“Yes, but if he should, by any means, fall into his old 
habits, what shall I do, Elinor? I am sure I could not en- 
dure a drunkard." 

“I could admire young Duval, if it was not that I 
suspect him of a decided predilection for his cups." 

“ How can you suppose it, Elinor ? — tell me." 

“ His wit is fascinating ; he is master of the English lan- 
guage, and converses better than any gentleman I know ; 
but I tremble for fear that my suspicions are true." 

“ Tell me why." 

“ It is quite impossible for me to explain myself. There 
is something about him that whispers it — something mitre; 
so like my poor, unhappy mother ; an indescribable domin- 
ion of a secret spring pervading the whole nature." 

“ He is very handsome ; perhaps you have discovered 
this since you suspicioned him of loving your cousin Kate." 

“ Pshaw ! you could not accuse me of such injustice. 
Aunt Paulina, beside, he chews cloves, I know he does." 

21 


242 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“What of that ?” 

“All drunkards do — that have enough self-esteem left to 
wish to conceal their hateful practices. I do abhor cloves ; 
my poor mother always kept them in her mouth. I am de- 
termined never to fall in love ” 

“You are determined never to fall and break your neck, 
if you can help it — always a mental reservation.” 

“ I was going to say, until I could stake my life on the 
stability of my intended/’ 

“ Oh ! poor pet, some day you will wake and find your 
plans all fictions, and that it is hard to be educated in 
the certainties of life. After all our attainments, we have 
to graduate in the school of experience/’ 

“ Some take lessons very early in life. I know I never 
shall be happy again. The miserable position in which I 
am placed, mortifies and subdues me. No, I never shall be 
happy.” 

“ Never is a long time, Elinor.” 

“Never in this world,” added the young girl, with a 
faint smile. 

“ There is another world, my child, a purer and a better ; 
that thought has comforted many a heart far more forlorn 
than yours. It comes, rainbow-like, in our dark skies, 
stealing the mind from its bitterness of thought, and carry- 
ing it beyond time and space, to ineffable glory. It is 
growing late ; good night, dear — pleasant dreams.” 

Good night, reader ! * 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


243 


Chapter 2 2. 

The purest treasure mortal times afford, 

Is spotless reputation ; that away, 

Men are hut gilded loam, or painted clay. — S hakspeare. 

In a little room, in the back part of a very indifferent 
boarding house, in Anthony street, lay the dying sister of 
young Sandford. When led by the strong arm. of his con- 
ductor to the room, he was scarcely sober enough to under- 
stand the condition of things ; but when the light was 
placed so its rays fell on her face, he staggered toward the 
bed. 

“ Brother ! dear brother !” said the invalid, when her 
heavy eyes were raised to his face, “ where have you been 
so long — so long ! Oh ! brother !” 

“I came, Letty, just as soon as I could. You are bet- 
ter, now ; don’t you think, they tried to make me believe 
you were dying — but they couldn’t come it 1 — no sir !” 

“ Hush, George,” said his weeping mother, “ have you 
no feeling ? Oh ! Heavenly Father, let this cup pass — ” 

“ Mother, it is no use — you can’t carry it on. You need 
not get into the theatricals ! Lyman Mason told me it was 
all a hoax !” 

“Brother !” gasped the convulsed girl, “listen brother — 
it is all true. I have but a short time to live — try and be 
yourself. I want to talk to you — I wish to tell you of 
heaven !” 

“ By heavens ! I have had talk enough ; and if you don’t 


244 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


think you’ll die just to-night, I would like to go back and 
finish that game of whist. Come, be a kind, good, sweet 
girl, and say you will not die until to-morrow — now do, 
will you?” 

Mrs. Sandford rushed to the bed, and endeavored to 
drag him away, but he flung her off, and, shaking her 
rudely, said, “ Ah ! old lady, you act pretty well — but it 
wont go off as it does at Burton’s. I know what you are 
up to !” 

“ George, for mercy sake, leave your dying sister !” 

“My dying sister is doing pretty well, I thank you, 
madam !” 

“George! George!” cried the frantic mother ; “come 
with me — leave Letty alone. Leave her to die by herself — 
you know she is dying !” 

“JSTo ! no ! sweet sister, I’ll see you off; when you are 
ready to go, you must whistle !” As he spoke in a wild, 
broken voice, he leaned his haggard face over the pillow of 
the dying sufferer. 

“ Ah! brother,” she whispered in a low, quivering voice, 
“ you will think of this, when I am gone ; then your heart 
will ache ; poor boy ! little dream you of the end !” and 
with her weak hand, she parted the curls from his brow, 
and looked lovingly into his eyes. 

Mrs. Sandford, who had left the room, returned with 
assistance. 

An unearthly scream, from the poor girl, drew them to 
her side. 

Who can describe the horror of the scene that presented 
itself ? 

The long, white arms of the young girl were wreathed 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


245 


around the neck of the drunken brother, and her whole 
frame writhing in the terrific throes of a strong convulsion. 
He, maddened by the liquor which he had been quaffing, 
for the last week, was still impressed with the mental 
fantasy, that his pure, dying sister was only trying to de- 
ceive him, and he had been tickling her in order to make 
her confess the ruse. 

They tore him from her, and while they were forcing him 
to his room, the doctor was summoned, and means were 
resorted to in order to effect relief, but all was vain ; con- 
vulsion succeeded convulsion, until exhausted nature would 
bear no more. The form relaxed — the slender arms lay 
listlessly across her settling heart — her hair draped in 
damp masses over her brow, and her contorted features set- 
tled gradually into their original placidity. A beautiful 
smile, caught from some whispering angel, flitted like a 
beam of light over her dying face, and raising her eyes, 
which flickered with their last intelligence, to the agonized 
parent, whispered, “ Mother, mother !” but so low, so 
faint — was it she who spoke ? or was it fancy ? For the 
gentle, the redeemed, had winged its flight through that 
mysterious labyrinth which separates us from the spirit- 
land. 

The wild screams of the dying girl in a measure restored 
the alienated senses of the miserable brother. He stole 
back to the room from time to time, listening to the parox- 
ysms of mental and bodily sufferings, expressed in heart- 
rending cries and exclamations ; then hurrying back, as if 
fearing detection, the wretched man would bury his face in 
his hands, and tremble with the excited rage of remorse, 
and imaginary evils ; demons whispering close to his ear — 


246 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


serpents with fiery tongues, hissing curses at him — fiends, 
of hellish aspect, prying in his face, then mocking him with 
fantastic grimaces, and ludicrous caresses. The lynx-eyed, 
Janus-faced tormentor, with its nondescript limbs, its nails 
of fire, and its putrid breathy pressing upon his prostrate 
form, and drawing the hot blood from his throbbing tem- 
ples — then dragging him down interminable precipices, 
where crowds of human skeletons were performing hideous 
and uncouth gymnastics — drops of cold perspiration stood 
like beads upon his brow, while burning coals of living fire 
consumed the very fluid of existence. Then came a lucid 
interval, and his reviving consciousness restored the mem- 
ories of the late evening. Consciousness of his brutal and 
extravagant conduct, was fully comprehended ; he was 
entirely overcome, and sank into a profound apathy, which 
lasted until the remains of the departed loved one was clad 
in the habiliments of death. 

Young gentleman, if you have ever abused the precious 
gifts of your Maker, reflect ! Perhaps, as you read this, 
you may consider it, at first view, a picture of the fancy — 
one too highly colored, or too extravagantly drawn. If you 
will but reflect upon it impartially, you will be constrained 
to confess that the artiste is indeed cold, very cold, in her 
delineations. Consider, for a moment, the perfection of 
man’s faculties, the delights and exercises of the mind and 
heart, when uncorrupted, as offered by the hand which 
formed him — this earth, with its fairy blessedness ; its gar- 
dens of delight; its arbors of domestic love; its temples of 
science; the aspirations of its intellect; the Eden of its affec- 
tions, and the throne of worship to its Architect ! If this 
be true, is not the violator of its laws an inconsistent 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


247 


creature ? Is not the drunkard a problem ? Is not his 
course through life a strange one ? — when he might walk 
along the green fields, beneath the blessed sun-light of his 
wise, provident, and indulgent Maker ? 

It is midnight ! Young Sandford steals like a fiend from 
his room — yes, a fiend; but strange to say, he walked up- 
right, and in the image of God. He passes with impre- 
cations, his wretched, and exhausted mother, who watches 
alone, the beloved corpse. • 

His vision is turned to one spot — a white muslin curtain 
shrouded it from his view. Sympathy shudders at the 
spectacle, and he scoffs at its electric influence. 

Yes, he pollutes the sanctuary of the dead with his 
presence ; like the genius of guilt, he lingers about the 
bier, but is afraid to raise the vail that conceals the silent 
form. Trembling in every limb, he quails beneath the 
purity of her maiden bed; he dares not draw aside the 
curtain, but heaven assists him — a strong breeze from the 
broken window-pane, wafts aside the slender tissue, and 
death reveals itselt in beautiful, yet horrible reality, to the 
cowardly culprit. There lay the spotless shrine, but the 
sanctified spirit had wended its way upward — upward, to 
the home of the angels ! He sees the smooth brow ; the 
motionless lips ; the long dark eyelashes, laid in everlasting 
repose upon the blanched cheek. He sees the little white 
jessamine blossoms, that had so long been flowering on the 
crumbling window-sill, lying among the twisted folds of 
her hair — a frail, tender, yet immolated emblem of the 
dead! Bitterly he gazes, until his mind travels back 
over the past. She was the counterpart of his being ; 
they opened their eyes to the same beam of day ; they 


24 8 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


slumbered in the same cradle ; were nurtured at the same 
fountain ; sported on the same greensward ; hand in hand 
they journeyed through the path of childhood, the first 
steps of youth ; offered their prayers at the same altar. 
Thus it went on, until a . shadow fell between them — it 
widened — it darkened, until a gulf parted them — the deep, 
deep abyss of sin and pollution. While the seeds of moral 
virtue were fructuating unto full fruition, in the genial soil 
of her mind ; his lost, day by day, their powers of healthy 
growth, and dwindled into a supineness, unaffected by any 
agent but the influences of the enchanted cup. Yes, he 
looks, and his perverted nature maddens at the sight — 
hope flies his presence — there is no hereafter so black and 
turbid as his own soul — despair seizes him — one dark pur- 
pose takes possession of his mind — onward he goes upon 
his horrid mission. There is nothing on earth, in sea, or air 
th#t- claims a thought; the suggestion of guilt and madness, 
has full dominion of his unguarded reason. He seeks the 
home of slighted trust — of infamy and ruin. The weep- 
ing mother is bathing the burning brow of her infant. It 
is dying — that first, solitary pledge of unblessed love. 
Cold — cold blows the night wind, drifting the frost 
through the shattered casement, and the broken roof. It 
is past midnight — there are no friends there — no physician. 
There is no Bible there — no comforts — the law has seized 
all — and fast goes the spirit of that babe to its God. And 
she the young — the erring one — thick fall her burning 
tears. Famished, and shivering, alone with the dying and 
her God — in that awful hour, memory points to her rustic 
home — mother ! father ! — bitter memories. So goes that 
innocent to Him who gave it being, and redeemed it with 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


249 


liis blood upon the cross. Can it be, that even in that 
hour — so solemn, so sacred — the fiend enters? Yes, again 
into the presence of death, he staggers — his curse echoes 
oyer the quivering features of his dying infant. The un- 
conscious murderer looks at his work. She, the broken- 
hearted, will soon follow, for the worm is at the core of the 
flower. He finds around him, look which way he may, 
the embodiment of hell. Returning reason, tells him of 
the mother, from whose heart he had plucked that flower — 
its only flower — he thinks of the violet eyes of that babe, 
when they first opened to the light. The past, the present, 
crowd upon him — such black memories move his spirit. 
He lays his purse and his watch upon the totteiing table. 
He smiles grimly upon the wanderings of the dying child — 
curls his lips with scorn, at the writhing features of the weep- 
ing mother — then quaffs again to the dregs, the fatal cup, 
and hurries out. He seeks the water’s edge — it is past 
midnight — a universe of religion and loveliness is above 
his head — the bright world of azure overhangs all, as with 
a blessing. He staggers on with a curse — he heeds 
them not — the stars seem to entreat him. The gentle 
moon breathes purity — the hush of the 'scene bids him 
reflect upon its Author, and his own destiny. The wide 
bay sleeps gently as childhood. One wild shriek — a 
splash — and all is still again. The light of the morning 
reveals the end on earth, of this confirmed, yet youthful 
drunkard! 

His body was rescued from the waves, and laid in the 
robes of death, by the side of his sister, to slumber until 
the resurrection. They were buried together — the pure 
and impure — the guilty and the innocent. 


250 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Thus passed away that God-like intellect from the 
theater of action. Yet, strange to say, that being is a 
representative of a great portion of this civilized and intel- 
lectual country, whose thousands of churches point heaven- 
ward — where the revelation of God exists — where the 
arts flourish, and where science walks the very pavements 
of the sky. 

This is the picture of the young drunkard. It is true— 
no phantasm of the brain — hundreds such as he, are 
seen lying in the gutters and streets, or carousing on its 
highways. 

Oh! young gentleman! 

“ Look thou not upon the wine when it is red. When it 
giveth his color in the cup. When it moveth itself aright.” 

“ At the last, it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an 
adder ” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


251 


Cl) ayUr 23. 

Buttercups and daisies, 

Oh 1 the pretty flowers, 

Coming ere the spring-time 
To tell of sunny hours. — M art Howitt. 

“ Where did you get tliose beautiful flowers ?” asked 
Elinor, as she sat watching Hannah, who was pulling to 
pieces a huge bouquet and arranging them to suit her own 
fancy in the rich vases on the center-table. 

“ That would be telling,” replied that notable personage, 
with a smile. 

“A secret ! — I ask pardon.” 

“ That is a most splendid rose, Miss Elinor,” said Han- 
nah; “ only see how full and snowy it looks — for all the 
world like a bride in winter, pale and sweet.” 

“ Be a good girl, Hannah, and tell me where you got 
them.” 

“At Fulton market, dear; they were a present from a 
gentleman.” 

“Ah, indeed !” 

“A gentleman of taste !” said Hannah, holding up a 
flower. 

“Undoubtedly!” cried Elinor. “How fresh and fra- 
grant !” 

“ See these beautiful Touch-me-nots — or no, I mean For- 
get-me-nots,” continued Hannah, laughing. 


252 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Quite a different signification, ” said Elinor. 

“ I will put them on your toilet-table — ain’t they charm- 
ing — delightful ?” 

“ Nothing could be prettier ! Thank you, Hannah.” 

“ Says he, when he gave them to me, says he, * Hannah, 
do you know the name of those flowers?’ ‘ Surely, I do,’ 
says I ; 4 why, you must fancy something green to ask me 
such a question — be-sure, and they are Johnny-jumpups 1’ 
Well, I wish you could have heard him laugh. 4 Miss 
Elinor used to call them Forget-me-nots,’ said he.” Han- 
nah looked slyly and mischievously at the young girl. 

“ How did he know what I called them?” asked Elinor, 
eagerly. 

“ He saw you on the boat — on the New World.” 

“ Theodore Harper !” said Elinor, drawing nearer to the 
table and bending over the flowers to inhale their fra- 
grance ; “ I know it must be Theodore.” 

“Aren’t they sweet?” asked Hannah. 

“ Yes; but tell me, Hannah — was it Theodore?” 

“ No more, nor less — 4 as large as life and quite as natu- 
ral,’ ” replied Hannah ; “he has returned to the city — he 
is going to attend the medical lectures, and has, I do affirm, 
quite a healing air of his own — it is enough to cure one of 
the jaundice to look at him. He is, I know, just as good 
as he ever was, and a little more so — just as kind and 
thoughtful. Don’t you think! dear, that he has been to 
see father and mother, and he says it does his heart good 
to see them living like Christians — having family prayers 
and taking the newspapers. He went with father to a tem- 
perance meeting, and was so well pleased, that the old man 
made a short speech and gave in his experience.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


253 


“ Is he handsomer than he was?” asked Elinor. 

“ I can’t see as he is — he dresses very nice and plain — 
none of your fling-a-me-jings, but a real, proud, aristocra- 
tic look, and wears his face as slick as a smoothing-iron. 

“ Then, he talks like a book — I mean, a book that can 
be understood. Says I, ‘ Mr. Harper, I suppose you will 
come and see us old friends V ‘ Perhaps it may have been 
out of sight out of mind,’ says he ; ‘I never forget my 
friends, but perhaps they have all forgotten me ; however, 
I must get my profession first and then come more pleasur- 
able pursuits.’ 

“ ‘ So you are learning to kill and cure ?’ said I — ‘ to be 
a physician? Well, I ’ll try and coax up. some disease,’ 
says I, 4 so I can judge of your ability.’ Then he laughed 
again and looked so much like he used to, that I could not 
help saying : ‘ La ! Mr. Harper ! you are the very same old 
seven-and-sixpence !’ 

“ ‘All but the hod, Hannah 1’ 

“ ‘ Don’t mention it,’ said I. So, dear, I have told you 
all about it.” 

“ Did he tell you where he had been, and what he had 
been doing?” 

“ He has been to Hew Orleans and Texas, and the West 
Indies, and then round by the Cape of Good Hope, then — 
Oh, my gracious ! I have forgotten — half down the Hud- 
son on the Hew World !” and Hannah laughed in her jovial 
quiet way. “What he has been doing is another thing. I did 
not feel authorized to inquire ; ‘ modesty is a quality that 
highly adorns a woman.’ I expect, however, he has 
been studying mathematics, Greek, Hebrew, and all the 
sciences — metaphysics, and humanology, and so forth.” 


254 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“How did you make all these discoveries ?" asked Eli- 
nor, with a glowing cheek. 

“A man is half known when you see him — when he 
speaks you know him outright. It is easy enough to see 
he has been trying to make a man of himself ; but I struck 
him up in a heap when I said : ‘ I suppose, you have heard 
Miss Temple was married ?' Says I, ‘she has done well/ 
* I hope so/ says he ; ‘ she was always a fine, dear, 
little girl/ 

“ ‘ Oh ! I don't imagine that it is supposed I meant Miss 
Elinor/ says I. 

“ * Miss Paulina?' says he ; ‘ Oh, yes ! I never dreamed 
of her marrying.' " 

“ Did he send me these flowers?" asked Elinor, in a tre- 
mulous voice. 

“ Ho, dear, he did not. He bought them from a poor 
little girl, to get rid of her — he gave them to me in order 
to get rid of them." 

“And he looks well?" asked Elinor. 

“ Very well, dear." 

“You know, Hannah, he never was a beauty," said 
Elinor, with a faint smile. 

“ * Pretty is as pretty does,' " rejoined the girl, brushing 
a cobweb from the mantlepiece, as she carefully placed her 
flowers to be admired and discussed. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


255 


Chapter 2£. 

Lady P. so that in speech, in gait, 

In diet, in affections of delight, 

In moulding rules, humors of blood, 

He was the mark, glass, copy, and book 
That fashioned others. Shakspeare. 

Clarence Duval continued his visits at Mr. Temple’s, 
and became so interested in their society, and that of the 
Fairmonts, that his old companions complained of neglect ; 
every endeavor to entice him back to his old habits proved 
abortive. When it was announced that he had become a 
member of the Temperance Society, and had enchanted a 
large and enlightened audience with his eloquence upon the 
subject, his old cronies gave him up in despair. 

In vain they had beset his evening path — his noon-day 
walks ; in vain they had marked his out-goings and his in- 
comings; hovering, like spirits of darkness, over the frail 
and tempted, as greedy for their prey as the starved vul- 
ture that pounces upon the entangled lamb struggling for 
its freedom, they had beset him in every form, but the 
counter-charm to their efforts was more powerful in its 
influence, at least for the time being. 

The stay which held him in the bounds of temperance and 
sobriety was the anchor of hope, launched among the un- 
certain moorings of love. He had become so deeply 
enamored of Kate Fairmont, that all former loves and pro- 
pensities were forgotten, or laid by for the present. 


256 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Clarence Duval possessed so many advantages above 
tbe ordinary attainments of young gentlemen, even of his 
standing in society, that it was almost impossible to imagine 
that temptation to evil, in any form, could seduce him from 
his high and brilliant course ; his talents were forcing them- 
selves upon public attention — his harangues, or stump 
speeches were almost electrifying ; his temperance lectures 
potent, pathetic, and converting ; his conversational powers 
incomparable ! 

His friends looked a-head, and pointed out the goal of 
his glorious career. A young man with such gifts and 
such prospects would necessarily be a successful lover ; he 
had every qualification to captivate the heart ; Kate loved 
him with all the enthusiasm of her nature, and in the 
strength and purity of her heart. She loved him, as the 
pious worshiper of Christ ever loves, firmly, and for- 
ever ! 

Her friends were pleased and proud of the connection, 
and if Mrs. Fairmont had her fears creeping over her heart, 
like threads of ice, and turned from the calm face of her 
trusting child, to conceal the shudder, yet she prayed and 
awaited the finale. 

Why should she have tears ? he was so noble in his 
nature — so honorable in all his proceedings — so aspiring — 
so far above suspicion or mistrust. So he was apparently ; 
but one dram-seller can convert three thousand such sons 
of promise in a year. Intemperance has leveled as many 
of the talented as the simple— handsome as the ill-favored ; 
if it preyed only upon the low, vulgar, licentious monstrosi- 
ties of the human species, it would not carry its devastation 
into every grade of life ; but, alas for earth ! it falls upon all 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


257 


who come within its banned circle, like the plague-spot, 
carrying misfortune, sorrow and death into every Eden that 
it enters. It is a poison, whose virus not only corrupts the 
entrails of the imbiber, but, through him, affects with its 
malignity the innocent and pure, that cling, and must feel 
his pestilence ; it blackens and humiliates the proud ; it 
brings vapidity to the active — weakness to the strong — 
deformity to beauty — and madness to the intellectual. It 
affects every portion of society ; it creeps into the cottage 
and the hamlet, bringing terror and dismay to sporting 
childhood. City police records exhibit disgusting enor- 
mities of crime, that neither man or woman could commit 
but under its demonizing effects ; it overhangs the prison 
walls like a shroud ; it is upon the highways and the by- 
ways — upon the rivers and the high seas. What caused 
the tumult on that graceful craft that pointed to the west, 
stretching her full canvas homeward ; it was the voice of 
discord — the cry of “ mutiny;” they were rejoiced with the 
thought of land — of home ; the captain drinks a bumper to 
his lady-wife, and the seamen, to mistresses and sweethearts 
in port ; hilarity ensues — the potion is doubled — the liquor 
passes freely ; poor Jack sells himself to the common 
leveler. His wife will look for him at the ocean outlet, 
until hope wearies, and the little one she holds in her arms, 
when asked for his father, will point to the rolling waves ; 
his father has fallen from his sea-rocked shrouds to a 
watery grave. 

Drunkards, this is the idol of your devotion ; it steals 
from your frame health and manliness, agility and nerve ; 
it demoralizes your inner man, and unfits you for every 
duty of life ; cuts you off from all sympathy or love with 
22 


258 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


man or woman — places you alone on a desolate rock, to 
perish, uncared for and unlamented. 

Ought not every individual, who is too feeble in his na- 
ture to grapple with this evil — to resist this foe to human 
happiness — ought he not to be guarded and secured against 
its invasions ? Ought not his country to defend him in this 
defenseless state ? If a man is trying to escape from sla- 
very, is not some hand ready to ward off the advancing 
foe ? If a man is insane and outrageous, is he allowed to 
prowl loose in society ? No, he is confined — his preroga- 
tives curtailed ; he is restrained by force. Should not the 
maddened inebriate have some consideration ? If he can- 
not restrain himself, ought not the law to do it in some 
way ? What avails, at present, suavity of words or kind 
acts, with those who have lost all self-esteem — all honesty 
of purpose ?, The confirmed tippler is proof against 
the warmest wooings of a world of benevolence. Let the 
law befriend him. The law alone can do it — and the 
law will do it — so mote it be. 

“ Clarence Duval will not be a sober man six months 
after his marriage, ” said Symes to Herman Frazier, as they 
were sitting over their champagne. 

“No, not three, ” was the response. 

“ Perhaps during the honeymoon.” 

“We must recruit, Symes ! ” 

“Yes, our numbers are falling off,” said Symes, mourn- 
fully. “ Poor Sandford ! his was a sad catastrophe ; very 
m elancholy — very . ’ 9 

“ Miss Fairmont is rich ; I am glad of it ; Clarence will 
come back to us full-handed.” 

“ She is very beautiful, too ; I love to tease Duval.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


259 


“ Not half as glorious a looking woman as that grave 
Miss Temple, ” said Symes. 

“ Grave !” repeated Frazier ; “ it is sheer pride and aris- 
tocracy. Never mind, I will make her suffer a few yet, in 
this world, for cold looks and lofty behavior. She can’t 
slight me with impunity.” 

“ What did she do ?” asked Symes. 

“ I have met her several times since Clarence introduced 
us, hut she is very stiff ; and what makes me so revengeful 
is this : she is always so composed, I can’t alarm her by my 
impudence, or flurry her with my assurance. She never 
sees me or hears me but with cool indifference ; it makes a 
fellow feel so insignificant.” 

“ You did not wish her to fall in love with you ?” asked 
Symes. 

“ No, but I wanted common courtesy. I offered to see 
her home, the other afternoon ; she said, ‘ I decline your 
offer, sir, as I have some little trifles of business to attend 
to — not very important — but sufficiently so to prevent minor 
claims on my attention.’ Since then I met her in a book- 
store. As soon as I came in, she was taken with a leaving. 
I hurried up Broadway, and overtook her just before the 
Astor House. Said I, making my most exquisite bow, 
* Good morning, Miss Temple.’ ” 

“ ‘ Good afternoon, sir,’ she replied, looking very se- 
riously in my face. ‘ Do you find your hat very oppres- 
sive, sir ?’ ” 

“ I found, by George, I had come off, in my hurry, with- 
out my hat, bringing with me * The Flag of Our Union.’ 
I went back after my hat, and when I returned, I found 
her getting in the omnibus.” 


260 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Never be in a burry, Frazier, especially when you are 
a little tight.” 

“ I had not taken a drop too much.” 

“ Just enough to make your head too big for your hat,” 
said his friend, laughing. 

“No such thing — I was not drunk, but that grave beauty, 
as you call her, shall look graver before I am done with 
her. Clarence Duval is not better than we are, if he does 
belong to the Temperance Society. Elinor Temple shall 
never forget me.” 

How faithfully he fulfilled his vow, will be found in an- 
other chapter. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


261 


Cl) apt tx 25. 

Affairs that walk 

(As they say spirits do) at midnight, have 
In them a wilder nature, than the business 
That seeks dispatch by day. — Henry vm, Act v. 

It is a glorious night ; the moon smiles upon the quiet 
waters, and the stars are out thick upon the vaulted sky. 
The wind is clear and cutting, for winter has taken up his 
quarters in the autumnal haunts. The world is out seeking 
pleasure, gayety and comfort. The churches are refilling, and 
hymns of praise rise in a mighty column to the throne of 
earth’s immaculate Creator. The saloons are crowded with 
the hungry and the sensual ; the parks are thronged with 
the gay, the happy, the famished, and the guilty — some 
exchanging honied words — some whispering the long pent- 
up curses of revenge — others are seeking relief for their 
overcharged lungs, drawing in the breath of heaven, that 
has almost lost its purity since it left the reservoir of the 
skies, and passed through the long, narrow lanes of human 
exhalation ; but still it is better than the putrid malaria of 
the cellars in Mulberry and Center, or the open localities 
of the “ Five Points,” or the Old Brewery. 

A figure was sitting on the steps of the Hall. Her tall, 
shivering form was enveloped in a cloak, which, from ap- 
pearances, must have seen hard service or strange abuse. 
Whether it had been created for man or woman originally, 


262 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


was, at the time we speak of, a riddle, for it was so tattered 
and deformed, so warped and disproportioned by its repara- 
tions, that it had lost the form of a cloak. She wore an 
old-fashioned straw hat, with faded ribbons, and crushed 
artificial flowers. Her hair was gray, but showed that it 
had once been carroty, and hung in bunches of crisped 
curls over her dark, sinister eyes. She sat, muttering to 
herself, and swinging her head backward and forward, like 
one in a trance. 

You might have seen at a glance that disease and sorrow 
“had made her summer pass away.” She could not have 
been more than forty-five, yet she was sixty, at least, in 
appearance, she was so worn and faded. All the evil pas- 
sions had left their shadows upon her countenance, and her 
smile was that of a glioul. 

There were two men sitting a short distance from her, 
but no one would have supposed they were at all interested 
in each other. 

One of those men still retained traces of manly beauty 
about his forehead and form, but his purple nose, watery 
eyes, and ulcerated cheek, together with his imbecility of 
countenance, told his history — the long, long dark struggles 
of his nature, and his final ruin. 

Habitual intemperance w~as marked in indelible charac- 
ters upon his face and person. 

What wait they for ? To beg alms, or to pick pockets ? 
Ho, they are watching the return of Mr. Lacy, and the two 
young ladies, Kate and Elinor. The old woman is a tool, 
employed to decoy Elinor to one of the low boarding- 
houses near the “ Five Points the two men had promised 
to assist her for a “ first-rate smash.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


263 


The cry of “ fire ! fire 1” A crowd rushes through the 
park. The cry resounds from every side. Every street 
disgorges itself into Broadway ;,they press through every 
gate of the Park. The engines rattle over the pavements ; 
the masses roll together ; the Bowery boys cut down every- 
thing before them, screaming with the racket of their en- 
gines in their own way, which is decidedly peculiar. The 
Park theater is on fire, and everybody is there to see it ! 
The whole Park was a scene of confusion and riot. Chil- 
dren were knocked down ; fat men pushed out of breath ; 
women fainted or screamed ; dogs trampled to death ; coat- 
tails cut off, and pockets picked. 

A fine looking young man, with a generous moustache, 
stepped closely to the old dame, on the steps of the Hall 
of Record, and said, “ They are coming — keep out a sharp 
eye — here, right by. It is the tallest one, with the white 
feather and the black man tie/ ’ 

The streets were still full ; the park crowded ; still they 
come, still they gathered ; still the rushing fires spread over 
the building. The flames threw their long, brilliant wreaths 
over the tops of the trees, until the Museum, St. Paul’s, and 
the Astor House, refracted the light in refulgent rays. The 
firemen worked ; the water reached every part of the build- 
ing, but the angry element devoured its lofty roof, then 
sunk in a general crash. A flood of sparks starred the at- 
mosphere, and fell in showers upon the trees, and the 
herbage of the pleasure-ground. Nothing was left, but 
the statue of Shakspeare, which stood aloft among 
the ruins, unscathed by the devouring flames. Like the 
immortality of its great prototype, it, stands alone — im- 
perishable ! 


264 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


When the first rays of the fire startled the loungers in 
the Park, a dense crowd rushed to the gates opening into 
Broadway. The gentleman with two young ladies, so 
closely observed by the old woman and the young man 
with the moustache, were making their way, as fast as they 
could, through the Park, and as they were forcing their 
way through the gate into the street and gathering multi- 
tudes were pushing their way in, as if the city was ousted, 
stumbling and kicking, it was almost impossible to gain an 
inch either way, the tallest of the young ladies was forci- 
bly dragged back. This occurred just as they were pass- 
ing through the gate ; the old woman had emerged suddenly 
from her dark corner and wound her desecrated arms 
around the terrified girl with the white plume and held her 
fast, and dragged her back into the park. 

The gentleman turned to regain the arm of his compa- 
nion, but could not find her. It was in vain that they 
lingered at the gate, hoping every moment would end their 
solicitude to recover her. 

The fire raged ; the crowd moved like an ocean of living 
creatures, but its blending waves were explored in vain for 
the lost girl. The woman pressed her closely to her with 
one arm still forcing her head down, while the other pressed 
a snuffy handkerchief into her mouth to prevent her from 
screaming. A man came up to assist the woman — that 
horrid-looking creature with the blistered face and the 
ulcerated cheek. They dragged her through Chatham- 
street on to Mulberry. She struggled to release herself, 
but alarmed and astounded by so unlooked for a calamity, 
she was unable to oppose the wretches into whose hands 
she had fallen. When the man approached to assist her. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


265 


or rather to force her on, she became more passive, dread- 
ing, more than words can express, coming in contact with 
one so loathsome and repulsive. 

Crowds passed them in this way. She cried and 
screamed, but everybody was crying and screaming. She 
tried to grasp some friendly hand, but everybody was 
afraid of being seized; everybody shunned everybody, 
and everybody was getting out of everybody's way, 
and everybody was thinking of nobody but them- 
selves — everybody was in everybody's way, and if any- 
body expected anybody to notice them somebody was 
very much mistaken. 

“We must keep a look-out or the first thing we know, 
we'll be in a regular muss," said the man, as they pulled 
their prisoner along the dirty street. 

“ No danger now," answered his companion; “hold on 
to the girl. She is yours, I have nothing to say." 

“What would you say Cap’an ? " asked the old 
woman. 

“ Nothing ; only it is poor sport to go on a dub without 
a little of the critter." 

“If that’s all, I am sure it is myself that will divide 
with you — here 's a shilling and there 's a window with a 
red curtain — do you take ?" 

“Yes, ma'am, and I 'll see you to the cribbey and then 
I am off on a bender — you take ?" 

They were interrupted by the girl, who screamed mui’der, 
as she saw some persons hurrying by with compassionate- 
looking faces. 

“What is the matter?" asked a corpulent-looking man 
with a silver-headed cane and large watch-key. 

23 


266 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Oh! sir, save me 1 save me !” screamed the girl at the 
top of her voice. 

“What does she mean?” he inquired, looking closely 
under her hat. 

“ Bad enough, sir ! ” replied the woman ; “ the poor, dear 
child is demented entirely, and it is always so wid her at 
the cry of fire — she always falls into conniptions — it is an 
ugly trick, sir, but she has done so ever since she was a 
baby.” 

“ It is all false, sir,” cried the frantic girl, trying to burst 
from their hold ; “ Oh ! sir, for the love of God, save me !” 

“Yes, you see — entirely upset !” and the woman tapped 
her fore-finger on her forehead and winked at the fidgety 
old gentleman; “ we are taking her home, sir, but she does 
not know us — not a bit of it I” 

“ So young and so pretty ! what a pity !” and the gentle- 
man sighed. 

“ Oh ! no ! I am not crazy, indeed I am not ! Only listen 
one moment — they are carrying me from my friends. Oh ! 
save me !” 

“Just so,” said the woman; “I am sure, I have nursed 
her in her cradle — the ungrateful hussy !” 

“ Poor thing !” said the gentleman, passing on; “ she is 
very beautiful! What a misfortune to lose one’s wits! 
What strange sights we meet in this city at every turn !” 

The next turn presented the Park theater in a blaze of 
light — the poor girl was forgotten. So much for street 
sympathy. 

“ Didn’t I come it over that old fogy?” said the woman, 
laughing hideously ; “he is sapped , certain.” 

They dragged the poor girl into one of those dirty, 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


267 


stinking alleys leading into the Five Points. They knocked 
at the door of a small, dark, brownish-looking house, which 
stood with its gable fronting on Mulberry-street. It was a 
miserable-looking place in rear and front ; but the interior 
had a more cheerful appearance. A few articles seemed to 
have fallen in the wrong place — forming, as they did, such 
strange contrast with the dirty, shattered walls. The win- 
dows had blinds ; the floors were carpeted with half-worn, 
faded, striped carpeting. The furniture was third-handed, 
from Chatham-street. The house was much larger than it 
seemed to be, at first survey ; it was narrow in its dimen- 
sions, but ran some forty feet back. 

“Nice boarding-house this, my chick,” said the old 
woman, as they passed the little, den-like looking rooms ; 
“ welL ventilated, with Croton fixin’s. You will fare like a 
princess.” 

They dragged the half-dead girl into a room, and bidding 
her to take off her hat, she turned the key on the outside 
and left her to her reflections. 

Her musings were bitter, but of short duration. Several 
women of detestable appearance, followed the old woman, 
and peered in at the weeping girl. 

“ Take off your bonnet dear — and it is good hands en- 
tirely you are in, and no mistake — will you choose to stay 
with the young ladies here, or will you go up to the wo- 
man what’s to have charge of you?” 

“Let me out of this house now!” replied the horror- 
stricken girl ; for she comprehended enough of her situa- 
tion, almost to madden her, “I shall die, indeed I shall, 
away from my father — my dear father — Oh ! if you have 
one drop of nature left, let me pass out!” 


268 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ I had as well turn a lamb out among wolves, as to let 
you out in the neighborhood of the Five Points.’ ’ 

“Oh! God have mercy on me — not the Five Points ?” 
and the poor young lady wrung her hands in utter despair. 

“ Oh ! madam, if you will only take me in to Chatham or 
Broadway, I will load you with presents and gratitude.” 

“ Don’t talk to me about gratitude — there is not enough 
of it in the world to load a cat’s back.” 

“ Yes,” replied the girl, “with the good.” 

“You call yourself good , hey ?” 

“I am innocent, at least — help me to escape.” 

“I can’t — its no use to tamper wid me, darling — I am 
no traithor — and then if I had a mind, I dare not disap- 
point the woman up stairs — for she is the when she 

is raised — so come along up will you !” 

“No, no — do not take me up there — have mercy, so 
God may have pity on you in time of sorrow and danger.” 

“ Come along, come along, you simpering fool — this is a 
boarding house, and some of the boarders are very aristo- 
cratic — especially the lady up stairs. She was one of the 
upper tens once — perhaps you have heard of her ?” 

“What name ?” asked the trembling prisoner. 

“Mrs. Ben Darby.” 

A smothering suppression of breath, was the only reply, 
and the blood left her face pale as death. 

“ Will you go ?” 

“ Yes, I will go.” 

“ Come along then — be a good girl.” 

They entered a contracted apartment, disgracefully kept, 
and with little or no pretensions to the comforts of life. 
Mrs. Darby had, however, retained, through the varied 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


269 


changes of her life, her predilection for lounging. The 
splendid sofa, had almost faded from memory, and she now- 
crouched upon an old, broken lounge, covered with stained 
and faded calico — dirty and greasy, with a cushion so 
filthy, that no one could venture to even surmise its original 
texture. She had lost all her beauty ; her black, glossy 
hair was intermixed with filaments of silver, and in mats 
upon her neck, but in front, still caressed into long curls. 
Her teeth, too firm to yield to premature decay, were very 
yellow and elongated ; her mouth was scornful and snarl- 
ing, like that of a fretted lioness. Her form had lost its 
queen-like proportions ; but bloated and flaccid, sought its 
ease in loose and unseemly garments. An old, faded 
muslin-de-laine, which had seen gay days in its time, 
with a huge cape, enveloped her form. 

“I have brought the young ’oman,” cried the conduc- 
tress of the girl, pushing her into the room. 

“ Take a seat, dear,” said Mrs. Darby, making room 
for her on the oily -looking couch. “ Quite pretty — aristo- 
cratic, I take it.” 

“I am sure ma’am, I have made no blunder at all — but 
it is dangerous meddling with the nobs — keep her out of 
sight, in case of a muss — them tarnal coppers always 
meddlin’ wid other folks’ business — an’ then, that con- 
carned Tombs is so near.” 

“ I wish you would not use your flash to me — I am not 
one of you — be off,” continued she, when she noticed the 
deep agitation of the girl, “you frighten a body.” 

“ Well ! the Tombs is handy — do you take ?” 

“ What shall I call you love ?” said Mrs. Darby whin- 
f° r s ^ ie was, as “ Jack” says, “ three sheets in the 


270 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


wind.” She turned to the girl for a reply, and found she 
had fallen on her knees, and with clasped hands, was 
gazing with incomprehensible agony into the face of her 
who addressed her. Wretched mother ! know you not the 
child of your bosom ? Has that troubled appeal of nature, 
no responding answer from thy cold and shattered heart? — 
none ! none ! 

Elinor Temple felt there was none, and silently wrestled 
with her emotions, then turning to Mrs. Darby she said, 
“ Call me Ellen.” 

“ Elinor was my own sweet child’s name — but she is in 
heaven — I am here ” 

“Is she dead ?” asked Miss Temple in a low tone, with 
a fluttering heart sounding the depths of her feelings. 

“Ho!” screamed the wretched woman, “but she had 
just as well be — she is innocent and happy, and I am — it 
matters not what lam — I might have been — but no more 
of that — well, well!” continued she, as if talking to herself, 
“it can’t be undone — sinking! — sinking! — I had just as well 
touch the bottom of the abyss. Has hell any bottom, 
child?” 

“Madam, pray do not talk so, you freeze my blood — 
Oh! it is dreadful.” Elinor hid her face with her hands. 

“Well, I will not — at least I will try not,” and she 
smiled hideously. “How beautiful you are — only think, that 
I wj,s once just as young, and perhaps, infinitely hand- 
somer, and just as frail. What evil got in you, child, to 
think of meeting that young man here?” 

4 # 

“I never had such a thought! — that old woman dragged 

O OO 

me from my uncle’s arms, and with the assistance of a 
vile-looking man, brought me here.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


271 


“ But you love the young man — he told me so.” 

“ He lies — I never loved any young man — never !” 

“ Well, don’t fly in a passion, dear — and tell me all your 
troubles. Then you did not come of your own accord ?” 

“ Never ! never !” 

“ Then fly this atmosphere of sin and degradation, and 
go back to your father and mother.” 

“ I have never known a mother’s care.” 

<4 A1i ! tell me you have no mother ? I suppose she died 
when you were a baby?” 

“ No, she is not dead,” cried the agitated girl, in a gush 
of uncontrollable feeling, “she lives in the precincts of 
vice — she is degraded — lost to all the dear hearts that 
could have loved and cherished her — without hope or 
mercy, lost forever!” 

“ And where is the wretched woman now ?” asked Mrs. 
Darby, her face purple with conscious guilt. 

“ In the lowest grade of life ; she gave away the baby 
at her breast for the bottle ; she gave up friends, wealth, 
and character for it, but that is not the worst — she has for- 
saken her God — lost sight of heaven !” 

“ Child,” said Mrs. Darby, drawing herself up in great 
dignity, “ you are getting up a tragedy — proceed — you do 
it admirable, but the case is so like my own that I will not 
listen to it; it stirs up all the evil thoughts and feelings that 
I would like to forget. Come, child, I will take you home.” 

“I’d rather stay with you until morning, if you will prom- 
ise to protect me. Only try to imagine that I am your Eli- 
nor — your own child !” 

“ Oh ! no ! she would scorn her reduced parent — that 


272 


Mrs. Ben Darbf. 


proud child of the Temples’; but, child, you shall be safe 
with me — yes — safe as with your mother.” 

“ Oh ! yes !” cried Elinor, springing toward her with out- 
stretched arms, and clasping her around the neck. 

“ Dear me ! you are very loving ; have you any small 
change? Elinor, give us a few.” 

“ Oh ! listen to me,” — said she, kneeling before her — 
your own, long deserted — ” 

“ Well, before I listen to your theatricals, give me a few 
shillings. I am thirsty — I’ll be hanged if — ” 

“Mother ! listen to your child !” 

“Just a little of the tin first, and then I will be very 
, attentive — just a little, dear.” 

“ Oh ! it is dreadful !” said poor Elinor, wringing her 
hands ; then suddenly seating herself again, she asked her 
mother if she lived alone. 

“Alone !” she repeated, “who could live in this world 
of bitterness and scorn alone ? Ko ! I have company lower 
and viler than myself ! If you are innocent, child, try and 
keep so. I never try to seduce the innocent — I will not do 
it ; but Darby is very heartless, and makes very poor pro- 
vision for me, and a body has often to lower themselves 
according to circumstances. I was not always pinched as 
I am now. I used to ride in my own carriage, and board 
at the Astor House. I always had friends then — people 
always have, when money is plenty. I kept my servants, 
too, but you would not think it now.” 

“You used to be very beautiful, too, I know you were ; 
you must have been,” said Elinor, turning one of her griz- 
zled curls on her finger. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


273 


“ Oh ! yes — that was my ruin ; but where is it now ? 
it all went when I had the small-pox. Oh ! that was a 
horrible time !” 

“ How long since ?” asked Elinor. 

“ My memory is very deceitful ; I believe it was five 
or six years ago. I was returning from Texas.’ ’ 

“ Alone ?” 

“ Ho, child, I never go or stay alone. Ben Darby is 
my shadow — always has been — will be in eternity !” 

“ Where is he now ?” asked Elinor, fearfully. 

“ What little there is left of him,” she said, smiling sin- 
istrously, “is in the city; but there is precious little left 
of Ben Darby. Ah ! if I had never known that man, I 
should have been boarding on Broadway yet, or been 
buried in Greenwood ; but it is done for now ! — the die is 
cast! — I look for nothing now but death to relieve me — none 
to care for me or weep for — ” 

“ Do not say that — your child — your own Ellen will com- 
fort you, if you will only love and permit her. Look at 
me, dear mother — do you not feel that I am your child ?” 
and she fell, weeping, on the breast of her unfeeling 
mother. 

“ What a child !” said Mrs. Darby, parting the curls on 
her brow, and looking into her weeping eyes. “ Hush ! 
hush ! don’t cry — no one shall trouble you ; I will — but 
see — here is a friend.” 

Starting on her feet, she beheld Herman Frazier — then 
hiding her face in her hands, she dropped closely by the 
side of Mrs. Darby. 

“ How kind to give me this meeting !” said Frazier in 


274 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


his blandest accents, and with his most insinuating smile ; 
“ I scarcely dared hope as much.” 

Elinor’s upper lip curled in scorn, but she said nothing. 
Her pure mind sickened at the thoughts which her strange 
situation suggested, beginning to comprehend indefi- 
nitely her position, and the evils which surrounded her. 

Mrs. Darby arose to leave the room, but Elinor clung 
to her. 

“If you have made an appointment to meet this young 
gentleman, I will retire.” 

“It is false — I never did any such thing — it is all a base 
stratagem, unworthy a man, and you shall not leave me 
alone with him !” 

“Well, have it your own way,” replied Mrs. Darby, 
sinking heavily on the couch. 

“Lovely, but proud girl,” said Frazier, drawing his seat 
in front of Elinor, “ we meet, but not on neutral ground— 
I have you now in my power /” 

“ I do not fear you, sir,” replied Elinor in a low tone. 
“I am with my mother, and though she is fallen and degra- 
ded, you dare not injure, in her presence, herinnocent child.” 

“ Frazier, do call for some water,” said Mrs. Darby, 
fanning herself. “ I have been dying with thirst.” 

“You have a chartered protectress,” whispered Frazier, 
pointing at the almost stupefied woman ; “I can soon fix 
her flint, and then — and then /” 

“ And then God will keep me,” replied Elinor, with 
cheerful faith. 

The water and liquor were brought in and placed in the 
window-seat. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


275 


“ Wine, is it?” asked Mrs. Darby, a deep, phosphoric 
light twinkling in her eyes. “ Perhaps, Frazier, the young 
lady "will join us ; a few drops will be beneficial.” 

Poor, deluded being I Never had she once, during her 
interview with Miss Temple, been able to feel, or recognize 
in any way, the relationship between them. Having been 
fuddled for weeks and weeks, without one lucid interval, 
she had become almost insane ; her heart was too deeply 
cauterized by the burning drops which daily fell upon it, 
to have one healthy pulsation. 

“ It will be my pleasure, you know, Mrs. Darby, to wait 
on the young lady.” 

“ I never drink wine,” replied Elinor; “I have never 
tasted it.” 

“ Why not, child ?” said Mrs. Darby. 

“ Because my mother is intemperate !” replied Elinor ; 
“ I detest it, because it is her enemy.” 

“ It has been my best friend,” said the degraded woman, 
drinking greedily the offered glass — “ charming ! — ah, 
Frazier, you know how these things ought to be done; 
the best of wine. I don’t care if I do,” continued she, 
holding forth her glass, as Frazier approached with the bot- 
tle ; “ what a beautiful tint-scher,” and she held it up to 
the light. “ I see it ’s prime — gen’wine, shuch as I love. 
Only try a glass, dear, do sliee how nice it looks.” 

“ I never drink it said, Elinor, with a shudder.” 

“ The upper tens all drink it” Frazier said, handing her 
a glass, with his face wreathed in sarcastic smiles. 

‘‘I will not,” said Elinor, proudly. 

“ We will see,” said he, sneeringly. 

Trembling with fear and consternation, the poor girl wit- 


276 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


nessed the frequent draughts of her mother, and the serpent- 
like smile of the false one, when he found that the liquor 
was doing its work, by arousing the sleeping devil in her 
nature. Her face was purple; only where the small-pox had 
left its prints, those spots were white, which added to the 
revolting and disgusting features of the almost helpless 
mass of flesh; she had begun to grow garrulous and 
fidgety. 

Frazier turned, smiling with demon-like suavity, toward 
Elinor, and whispered, “ My little bird, do you find your 
cage comfortable ?” 

She answered him not, but sought the window, and 
looked out ; the moon was shining, but there was nothing 
to be seen but the murky roof of the houses and smoke- 
dried chimney-tops, and the gloomy-looking dome of the 
neighboring Tombs ; mentally she prayed for strength of 
purpose — for timely protection ; then turning, with her 
mind soothed and reassured, she silently awaited the 
finale. 

Alone, and among the most wicked and abandoned 
part of the community, how was she to escape, or even 
cherish a hope to do so. She looked around on every side, 
but there was no hope — no way of escape ; and that 
Wretched mother quaffing, with insatiable thirst, the mad- 
dening draught; how was it all to end ? Elinor asked her- 
self this question, and her shivering heart made no response. 
She saw Frazier approach the table ; mix water and wine 
together ; then shaking a little white paper over it, crumbled 
the paper in his pocket, and handed it to Elinor. 

“ Come, dear, take it, it is only a thimbleful ; Frazier 
thinks it will enliven you ; drink it, love !” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


277 


“ I will not/' said Elinor. 

“ Will not!” repeated Frazier. 

“ No, not with my own will.” 

“ Obstinate children are often forced to take medicine,” 
said Frazier, bowing gracefully, and with mock politeness, 
before her, with the glass in his hand. 

“ I will not touch your drugged cup ; I defy — I despise 
you ;” and starting on her feet, she prepared to defend her- 
self with the best of her ability. 

“ Will not, hey !” he approached, and held it closely to 
her face ; “ drink, or by ” 

“ Drink it yourself, and to with you,” said a soft, 

oily voice, and the glass struck forcibly the open mouth of 
Frazier, and was shattered against his front teeth. 

“ Drag her out,” cried Mrs. Darby, “ or the police will 
see her — in here.” She opened a door leading to a place 
that looked more like the “ black-hole of Calcutta” than 
anything else. 

The wild shrieks of the terrified girl, as they tried to 
drag her out, and force her into that dreadful cell, brought 
a crowd of spectators into the apartment, and, as on all 
such occasions, they were not content to remain such, but 
soon found excuses for falling pell-mell into the intricate 
merits of the muss. 

The man with the horrible eye and the cancerated cheek 
approached the now furious, raging, storming termagant, 
and commanded her to desist. 

“ It is none of your business what we do with her !” 

“ I helped to bring her here,” said he ; “ but I thought 

you wanted her for another purpose ; but it's a d of a 

shame to treat her so ; you shall not do it !” 


278 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Bless my soul, Ben Darby, you are getting back a lit- 
tle of your spunk ; but you can’t master me ; no, sir-ree : 
so come along you whimpering imp, you ; I only want to 
bide you from the police — don’t you understand ?” 

“ ~No, no,” screamed Elinor, clinging to the chair, and 
everything in her way ; “ oh, do not, I pray, add crime to 
crime ; listen to me — mother ! mother ! 

“ Frazier, hold the door — in with her — she shall ” 

“ Hold,” screamed the poor girl, with all her remaining 
strength, “ you know not what you do.” 

“ I don’t, hey! well we ’ll see.” 

“ Then, see, d you!” cried Darby, “ would you 

destroy your own child ?” and he pitched a bottle at his 
wife, which struck her on the temple, and felled her to the 
floor; she fell back against the wall, and groaned furiously — 
like a wounded tigress.” 

“ Then, rushing upon Frazier, he commenced a battle, 
the merits of which were lost in the confusion that sur- 
rounded it; some were swearing, and offering to show 
fight to any one who dared come out ; some tumbled over 
the others ; some tried to raise the apparently lifeless 
woman ; some were punching her in the side with their 
feet, to see if she was really dead, or if she was only pre- 
tending. Others were trying to part Frazier and his anta- 
gonist. During this revolting scene, poor Elinor sat stupe- 
fied, endeavoring to recall her fleeting ideas — completely 
astounded by the horrid novelty of her situation. 

At last she crept to the side of her mother, and stanched 
with her handkerchief the wound upon her face ; her fea- 
tures were gyved by the twisting nerves into immovable 
agony and pain, uttering furious curses and imprecations 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


279 


on the head of the author of her disaster. Frazier was 
desperately wounded in the side, and the officers restored 
quiet — the muss was quelled, and Mrs. Ben Darby seemed 
suddenly to comprehend the whole. 

“ My child, ” she said, “ my Elinor ! and you knew it, 
Darby, and did not tell me ; may you never find mercy.” 
She fell back in a paroxysm of pain and fury; and Elinor, 
overcome, fainted by her side. 

Darby was dragged, for the twentieth time, to the Tombs, 
and his wife, for the first time, to the hospital. 


280 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Cjm jit tt 25: 

Death enters and there ’s no defense, 

His time, there ’s none to tell. 

He’ll in a moment call thee hence 
To Heaven or down to hell. — H art. 

It is past midnight. The churches, the parks, the 
theaters, Castle garden, Christy’s, and the restaurants, have 
all disgorged themselves. The moon smiles down on the 
slumbering city ; still, and peaceful, only where misery 
watches ; where sin riots ; where penury pinches, and dis- 
ease torments. 

In a small room in the hospital lay the panting form of 
Mrs. Darby. This, then, is the end of her checkered 
career — the end of all her life’s aim. Erring, wretched 
woman ! A physician is called to attend her. He scans 
with stern inquiry the disfigured face of the wounded 
patient. 

His attention is arrested by the police officer, wno says : 

“ Doctor, attend to this one first — she needs immediate 
care — she is young, and looks innocent.” 

“ Who is she ? where did she come from ?” 

“I suspect, the lost young lady we have been searching 
for since the fire. She answers the description.” 

“And this wretched being?” asked the physician, point- 
ing to Mrs. Darby. 

“ A stale old customer, and belongs to the devil — the 
sooner he gets her the better.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


281 


“ Her name ?” 

“Is Darby — that ’s Mrs. Ben Darby !” 

“Mrs. Ben Darby? Oh! yes — true, true — I see through it 
all,” and springing to the side of Elinor, who lay on a 
lounge, he tore the bonnet from her head, raised her from 
the pillow, and looked in her face. That pale, young face! 
“Yes, it is she! Elinor! Elinor! speak to me, Elinor! The 
voice had all the power, in its use, as had the ‘ open 
sesame’ of the Forty Thieves. She looked wildly around 
her. 

“ Where am I ? where is my poor mother?” 

“ You are in the hospital, in good hands — yes, Elinor, I 
am your old friend — your old protector — do you not know 
me ? your old playmate !” 

“Yes — save me, Theodore — I am falling, fall ” and 

poor Elinor fainted again. 

The physician bathed her face; parted the disordered 
hair from her forehead ; looked long and kindly upon her 
well-remembered features. The young girl regains by 
degrees her consciousness, and raising herself from her 
recumbent position, looks timidly around, “ It must be 
him!” 

The doctor, who had retired to a recess window, returns, 
seats himself by her and whispers : 

“ Fear not, Elinor, I am with you to the end — be com- 
posed — be yourself — why should you fear?” 

While they were dressing Mrs. Darby’s wounds, Theo- 
dore endeavored to occupy Elinor’s attention. Sometimes 
she was startled by a barbarous yell from the drunken, 
suffering woman, and was ready to fly to her side ; but her 

friend would entreat her to remain quiet, until the opera- 
24 


282 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


tion was performed. He saw that she was too much 
excited and overcome by the terrible scene, through which 
she had passed, to bear or endure much more. Endeavor- 
ing to suppress her emotions, she bowed her head in silent 
humiliation, to the gentle inquiries and tones of Theodore. 
Woman like (for woman will be woman), she shook out 
the wrinkles from her merino dress ; straightened the front 
of her battered up velvet hat, and the crumples from the 
feathers ; drew over her form, the folds of her mantilla, 
and tried to restore herself to her usual patrician appear- 
ance. 

After Mrs. Darby had received necessary attention, 
she was placed in bed, and soon fell into an unnatural 
slumber. Elinor and Theodore watched by her during the 
rest of the night. Starting upright in her bed, she at 
times dared her husband again to strike — clenching her 
fists with fury, and, uttering the deadliest curses, she would 
again fall back powerless upon her pillow. Her situation 
was deplorable, and her sufferings excruciating, and so 
entirely was she occupied by her immediate urgencies, that 
she did not seem sensible of her daughter’s presence, or 
rather looked upon it as a thing of course. All maternal 
affection had perished in the general wreck of humanity. 
She had forgotten the child of her travail ; but God had 
not forgot the wretched sinner. His mercy still flickered 
about her ; a beam, a ray, was still shining over her last 
hour. 

The sweet face, that bent like the angel of mercy above 
her contaminated form, and the love-breathing voice, that 
came like the whisperings of innocence to her throbbing 
ear — mother ! mother ! it touched a chord — the last, tenu- 


v 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


283 


ated fiber of natural affection — “mother! mother !” — the 
virulent ichor of the heart was stirred up. 

“Ah ! if I only had my time to live over again !” cried 
Mrs. Darby, in a husky voice. 

“What would you do mother ?” asked the tremulous 
voice at her pillow. 

“Shun liquor, as I would hell !” screamed the mother. 

“ Oh! not such words,” whispered Elinor, “it is sinful, 
dear mother — compose yourself — remember your case is 
awful, your suffering great — but God is merciful.” 

“Little did I ever dream I would come to this — dying in 
a hospital — no money — no friends!” 

“I am here mother — Oh ! do not say that — your child, 
your Elinor — I will never leave you.” 

“It is well enough to cram me with such dainty 
speeches — it will read well in the ‘Daily Times/ — all for 
effect. The mother deserted her child for the bottle — her 
husband for the tempter — yes, that Darby has been the 
snake in my path — but he was a man — all men are vil- 
lains— false. Ah ! if they will only swing him for ” 

“No — no, not all mother — think of my generous, high- 
minded father — mother, have you forgotten the Henry 
Temple of your youth ?” 

“ Don’t taunt me with him — don’t I know what Henry 
Temple was, and is — did he not spurn his young wife for 
one failing only — cast her off upon a merciless world, 
because she loved wine /” 

“He did all he could mother — he bore with you until it 
brought him to the edge of the grave — he tried to wean 
you from it.” 

“Wean!” repeated the wretched woman, with scorn — 


£84 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ as if he thought to cheat me from it, like a child — as if I 
loved it no better than the babe its mother’s milk. Little 
knows he of the drunkard’s devotion ! Gentle reproof — • 
kind, suasive entreaties! — he ought to have incarcerated 
me in a dungeon — kept me in perpetual imprisonment — he 
ought to have forced me into sobriety ! Force — yes, that 
is the word — nothing else will do for One doomed to the 
bottle. Talk of moral suasion— you had just as well talk 
of extinguishing a burning pile with the dews of night. 
Fiends of fury !” continued she, pushing the bandage 
from her gaping brow, “what use is signing the pledge. 
If I had written my name down with the blood exuded 
drop by drop from my heart, I should still have drank on. 
Can the sick cure himself ? — never was there a disease more 
lingering, and fatal as the cholera ! When one has the 
ship-fever, or breaks his limbs, or loses his senses — they, 
take him to the hospital — charitable institutions. Oh, yes! 
but the drunkard dies in the loathsome cellar — with a stone 
for his pillow, and a curse for a prayer. The police and 
the law drag out the criminal offenders of the law, and the 
law punishes them — but the drunkard commits no crimes — 
he never kills any one, and although the Tombs is filled 
every night with drunken rioters, they are sent out to try 
it over. 

“ Oh ! mother, why did you ever take to it?” 

“ I used to steal it from my mother’s closet. She always 
kept it there in a beautiful bottle, with a silver stopper ; but 
she only used it for medicine. After I was married, I tried, 
as you say, to wean myself from it, but I craved it more 
and more. I loved your father ; he was very handsome ; 
but I loved rum better. I loved you , dear, when you first 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


285 


opened your eyes ; when I felt your precious lips upon my 
breast, quivering my very heart-strings ; but I loved wine 
letter. I loved the fashion and gayety of life, pomp and 
show — but I loved the bottle with the silver stopper letter 

than the glory of the world or ” 

“ The hope of heaven,” said Elinor, timidly. 

“ Heaven,” repeated the sufferer, slowly. “ How strange 
your words sound ! I used to hear them long ago. Sin 
against God ! as if there was a God.” 

“Oh! yes,” exclaimed Elinor, earnestly, clasping her 
hands, “ there is a God, madam, a just God, and he will 
not look upon sin with the least degree of allowance. Oh ! 
my mother, turn your thoughts to Him.” 

“ Dear me, child, how excited you are !”' 

“ Listen to me, madam,” cried the earnest girl, falling 
on her knees, and looking in her blacked and darkened vis- 
age, “ there is a God ; but he is merciful as well as just ; 
he is dealing in kindness with you now ; you have still time 

to repent — time for forgiveness ; for if you die ” 

“ I will not die ! I cannot die !” screamed the frantic 
woman. “ God ! — heaven ! — hell ! Ho ! ha ! ha ! it is only 
a scarecrow, held up, to wean people from their evil ways ! 
God never made us, with such horrid propensities and dis- 
positions, and to punish us for giving way to them. Oh, 
no ! the Savior never died on the cross ; his blood cannot 
wash out the foul stains of the souk Heaven and the 
angels ! it all sounds very sweet to dying ears, I suppose ; 
but it cannot be ! Ho ! we sink into the earth — we lie and 
rot, and mingle with the sod.” 

“ Ho, mother, no! the soul is immortal, and Christ has 


286 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


died to redeem it, and he is ready now to intercede for you, 
if you will yield your heart to him — only think of him.’ , 

“Ah ! if it is all true what you say, and what Jane Fair- 
mont said long ago, it does me no good ! I have sinned 
past hope ! I have never given God one thought ! I have 
left friends, husband and child ” 

Her eye-balls glared from their livid lids ; her frizzled 
hair stood out from her ashy brow, with its frightful, bleed- 
ing fissure ; her mouth was wreathed with distorted smiles. 
“ Oh ! no, I cannot die ! there is that within me which can- 
not be annihilated ; ’tis the burning curse — the raging fire, 
that has been consuming me ! I carry my punishment 
with me. Oh ! Temple, strike me not with that heated 
club ! it belongs to hell ! — to the fiend with a thousand 
fangs ! Ah ! yes, I see now, it is the bottle of the intem- 
perate ; my own precious bottle, with its jeweled stopper. 
Don’t pour it on my head ! it burns like vitriol ! Oh ! for 
water to cool the consuming flames that are destroying soul 
and body ! I thought that death was cold and turgid — 
that its breath was chilly, and its hands icy ! I thought 
that the grave was damp, cold, and quiet, and that the 
worms would crawl in silence over the stiffened form ; but 
no ! it is a furnace of never-dying coals — of molten lead, 
seething and hissing like a volcano of eternal heat ! Yes, 
yes, there is a God — a terrible God !” 

“Yes, mother, but his name is love,” cried the weeping 
daughter. “ Jesus is your friend.” 

“ No, not the drunkard’s !” replied Mrs. Darby, tearing 
the bandages from her wounds, and the clothes from her 
bosom, “there is no water to quench the burning heart ! — a 


Mrs. Ben. Darby. 


287 


stream of liquid fire bathes the never-dying soul ! Oh ! 
for one drop of water! — water! — water ! ” 

Poor Elinor hid her face in the counterpane, but the 
hideous cries, the blasphemous curses, and ranting of her 
insane mother, was more than her nature could bear. Al- 
most senseless, she was taken from the room, and her 
friends were summoned to take charge of her. 

Mrs. Darby’s deathbed scene was too dreadful to dwell 
on. Elinor never left her until the closing hour, when her 
strength failed, and she was debarred from witnessing her 
death. But those who stood by her, declared it terrific. 

Ben Darby died in prison before his trial for the murder 
of his wife had been concluded. His left cheek was entirely 
eaten out by the corrosive disease which liquor had pro- 
duced. When brought out in his rough coffin, he was 
literally covered with worms — living worms ! his corpse 
unfit for the dissecting-knife ; and was tumbled into the 
earth, despised and forgotten. 

Mrs. Darby was interred in Greenwood by her sorrowful 
daughter, with a plain stone to mark her resting-place. She, 
after all, secured the last advantage that her position had 
to offer on earth — an aristocratic grave. 


288 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Cjiaptu 27. 

Gentle friend l 

Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday 
And may he so to-morrow. — Joanna Bailey. 

One little tear, like a clear drop from an April sky, lay 
upon the clieek of Kate Fairmont, when she kissed her 
mother and bade farewell to her brothers, sisters, friends, 
and happy home. Why should she weep ? She had mar- 
ried the man she loved ; he was all her imagination had 
formed of a perfect man, and she was yet too simple to 
dream that human nature was not always what it appeared 
to be. 

He was handsome, talented, gentle, and acquiescing in 
his ways ; so fascinating in his accents of love ; so deep and 
passionate in his admiration of Nature — reverential to the 
Deity and free from the skepticisms of the day. As a law- 
yer and orator, he was making rapid advancements; his 
success was undoubted by his friends. Every one prognos- 
ticated that he would some day send up a rocket from the 
senate-chamber of Congress, that would emit a spark to 
every State in the Union, or perhaps he would grace the 
President’s chair — why not ? 

Kate was very proud of her husband, he was so richly 
endowed by nature. His aspirations were lofty and noble. 
Brilliant in the manifestation of those springs of wealth 
which lie in the deep and exhaustless vein of every man’s 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


289 


heart, prince or peasant, whose valuable stores surpass the 
visions of the gold -dreamer. God has fashioned man after 
his divinity — the soul is linked with His eternal being. In 
this beautiful world of perishing joys, man has food for his 
deathless appetite. Before him are the mysteries of his 
being and his immortality to occupy his thoughts and 
engross his meditation. In the clear canopy above are the 
unapproachable planets — a glorious universe of light and 
darkness, the incomprehensibility of which draws from the 
elevated mind insatiable desires to trace the laws by which 
the natural world is sustained, the paths of those glorious 
orbs, and the relations they bear to each other. The sim- 
plest leaf, the tenderest blossom invites and stimulates the 
mind with exalted thoughts and endless inquiries. The 
inquiring intellect of man has no limits or boundaries, and 
none can fortell its final goal. 

This is the standard of man, and when he walks forth 
clothed in the glory of his might, he is the noblest work of 
his Creator. It is not strange, then, that he should be the 
ideal of woman’s love and adoration. 

Kate felt very proud of her husband, especially when 
she contrasted him with a great many who crossed her 
way. He was so highly gifted, so perfect in form and 
address. Hone of your crank-sided, disjointed, hard, 
warped mortals so difficult to bend to reasonable pur- 
poses — not one with more money than brains and less 
brains than vanity. He was not one of those Mount Atlas, 
concerns, who throws himself on his prerogative and says : 
“ My foot is on my native heather and my name is Mac 
Gregor!” nor did he belong to that peculiar set with which 

society is sometimes molested — those sacks of wind, inflating 
25 


290 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


and collapsing just as the spur of the moment dictates, 
catching at every new humbug, every popular theme ; nor a 
double-fisted, propelling Hercules, who keeps the world 
dodging on either side, so if he does fight the battle of life 
manfully, he gains nothing by the combat but a knowledge 
of mankind and an equivocal reputation. He could not be 
placed among the slow-and-sure beings — remarkably slow 
and sure to do nothing, with, whom it is wearysome and 
unprofitable to travel the long, rough road of connubial 
life — a drone, whose saccharine disposition subjects you to 
none of the varieties of matrimony, but forever moves on 
in his course, like the routine of a treadmill, or sits up 
like a weathercock, veering with every breeze of the com- 
pass. He is still better than the cream-faced hypocrite, 
sub rosa , in all his measures, private or public, with scarcely 
courage enough to defend his umbrella — let alone his 
wife. 

A woman is never proud of a silent husband, who 
holds his head up like a sign-post, and looks, for all the 
world, as if he was playing club-fist and was determined 
not to be caught napping. He never enters into explana- 
tions — his wife knows no more about him or his business 
than she does of the Royal- Arch Chapter of Masonry. She 
can never guess his thoughts or anticipate his wishes. 
When at home, he prefers “ Harper,” though a month 
old, to the converse of his wife or the prattle of the curly 
headed boy, who sits as still on his little chair as a wax- 
figure in a show-window. If he promenades, his wife goes 
by his side, like a self-propelling walking-cane. If he 
happens to speak, his remarks are sententious, uninterest- 
ing, and unedifying. So they pass on through life. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


291 


What a long, long road it must be ; it seems intermin- 
able. Single blessedness is a joke to it. 

Clarence Duval and Kate Fairmont bid fair for a happy 
pilgrimage. Everybody said they were made for each other. 

“ Hers the mild luster of the rising moon, 

And his the radiance of the open day.” 

They left, the morning after their marriage, to visit his 
friends, and settle down at Saratoga for the season. Cla- 
rence was devoted to his bride, he seemed to almost wor- 
ship her; for a week, nothing could tempt him an hour 
from her side. He evinced no disposition to engage in any- 
thing that separated them. She dreamed on; she heard 
his praises from every mouth, and listened, like a devotee, 
to the eulogiums bestowed upon him by strangers. She 
had never known his history, therefore, she had nothing to 
do but to dream . 

Thus passed the hours away on golden wings, and hope 
keeping sentinel at the entrance of her heart. 

The honeymoon had scarcely passed, when some of 
Clarence’s old associates arrived at the Springs ; not for the 
renewal of health, but for the reimbursement of their purses. 
They knew that he was there with his young bride — that 
her future happiness depended on his strict adherence to 
the temperance pledge. What cared they for that ? They 
noticed his attentions to his wife ; they noticed his temper- 
ance at table — his lofty and proud bearing among the elite 
of the grades by which he was surrounded ; they knew, 
too, his weak point, that there was a little crevice in his na- 
ture through which every moral principle could be reached, 
if not entirely destroyed. 


292 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Whenever opportunity occurred, they assailed him at 
every point — congratulated him on his splendid prospects ; 
praised the beauty and grace of his young wife — by de- 
grees drew him more frequently from her side — assailed 
him with reproaches for deserting old friends. Frazier, 
more audacious than the rest, accused him of being ruled 
by his wife ; and although Clarence was disgusted with his 
coarse inuendoes, yet still he felt them. Ridicule to him 
was insufferable, except when too drunk to heed its pointed 
arrow. 

“ Why don’t your wife waltz ?” asked Frazier, with well- 
feigned surprise. “ If I had as charming a woman, I would 
make her waltz ; trot her out and clear the stakes. By 
heavens ! I would, Duval.” 

“ My wife is opposed to dancing altogether,” said Clar- 
ence, hurriedly. 

“ I would soon cure her of that, I warrant you. If she 
was to see you waltzing with the finest looking woman you 
could find, you would soon see her floating through the 
mazes of a waltz, with the airy agility of Peter Wilkins’s 
winged wife.” 

“ You do not know her, Frazier, therefore have no right 
to venture an opinion on what she might or might not do.” 

“ I did not mean to offend you, Clarence ; why, you are 
growing so testy.” 

“ The effects of matrimony,” said a tall, pale-visaged 
youth, with a glorious red moustache. “ Young husbands 
are always so.” 

“ Ha ! ha !” laughed Frazier, “ you ought to know Clar- 
ence Duval better than to suppose matrimony would change 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


293 


him. Give us your hand, old comrade,” and Frazier left 
him for that day. Like a wary spider, he had not yet com- 
pleted his web, so that it would close around his victim. 
He spun on, and his prey came nearer and nearer every 
day. 

“ Clarence,” said Frazier, coming up suddenly behind 
him, and laying his hand familiarly upon his shoulder, “ I 
have just made a bet with Allen, and we agreed to leave it 
to you to decide.” 

“What is it ?” asked Clarence. 

“ He says your wife is a Methodist. I swore it was slan- 
der.” 

“ You have lost your bet,” replied Clarence, flinching at 
the idea of his wife being the subject of their controversy. 

“ Ah ! I ask pardon,” said Frazier, drawing back, with 
well-assumed temerity. “ I hope I have not offended 
you.” 

“ By no means,” answered Duval. 

“It seemed so comical,” ventured Frazier, “for a man 
of your free habits to marry a ” 

“You have said enough on the subject, Frazier,” said 
Duval, with a flushed cheek. “Another remark will subject 
you to my displeasure.” He walked off, but before he got 
beyond hearing, his ears were assailed by a burst of merri- 
ment, of which, no doubt, he was the subject. 

Ho sooner had Clarence left them than Frazier and his 
companion made a bet, that if Clarence could be forced to 
dance, his wife would not remain an idle spectator of the 
scene. Frazier said he knew the women too well to doubt 
it, but young Allen declared that Mrs. Duval was religious 


294 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


from principle. They agreed that Allen should intrigue 
Clarence to dance with the beautiful Miss G , and Fra- 

zier pledged himself to achieve the rest. 

One evening she was sitting in the Yerandah. It was 
crowded, but her husband was not there. He had often 
left her alone in the last two days, but Kate had not felt 
the change. She was not selfish, and felt happy to think 
her husband was enjoying himself ; but this evening she 
felt a little sad, or rather reflective. She sat watching the 
clouds as they passed the stars, dimming up their bright- 
ness, until the moon suddenly bathed the trees and lawns 
in a flood of light. Her thoughts wandered beyond the 
blue sky ; she felt that the world, even when it showered 
its golden favors, had not power to satisfy the immortal 
mind. The soul needs the converse of angels ; it cannot 
be trammeled down to the rusty usages of earth, but seeks 
to satiate its longings in the dark, mysterious future — that 
future bears a charm, because it is mysterious. Kate was 
unconscious of the flight of time, until she heard the music 
and the dancing. She looked up, and Clarence was stand- 
ing before her ; the crowd was dispersing. 

“ Clarence,” said she, touching his arm, “ look at those 
beautiful clouds, tipped with the color of the rose.” 

“ Splendid,” said Clarence. 

“Look at that white cloud that hangs, as it were, from 
the moon. It looks like the gate of heaven ; the columns 
are carved and inlaid with silver, and set with diamonds. 
There stands the angel of admittance, in his long white 
robes. Those who enter the glorious portals go out no 
more forever. I can almost see through it:” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


295 


Oh! the transporting, rapturous scene 
That rises to my sight, 

Sweet fields arrayed in living green, 

And rivers of delight. 

There generous fruits, that never fail, 

On trees immortal grow; 

There rocks, and hills, and brook and vale, 

With milk and honey flow. 

No chilling wind and poisonous breath 
Can reach that happy shore, 

Sickness and sorrow, pain and death, 

Are feared and felt no more. 

Filled with delight 

“ For God’s sake, Kate, desist,” said Clarence, in a low 
voice, slightly shaking her arm. “ Only see, how they 
are gathering to listen to your voice.” 

“ Indeed, I was not conscious of it,” replied she, hur- 
riedly drawing back into the shadow of the door. “ I was 
singing very low.” 

“ Yery, dear, but you have no idea how strange it 
sounded.” 

“What, Clarence?” 

“ That hymn you were singing.” 

“ Do you really think so, or are you only quizzing me ?” 

“ Everything you sing, dearest, sounds musical to my ear, 
but remember, there is a good variety of ears at Saratoga.” 

“ Some long ones, no doubt,” said Kate, with her sly, 
mischievous look, which was always irresistible. 

“That may be, my little wife, but you know we must 
conform to the rules of society. We must do as our circle 
does* or be subject to its animadversions. Kow, who ever 
heard that ditty sung here in the very midst of fashion ?” 

“ Oh ! Clarence ! how can you call that lovely hymn a 


296 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


ditty — it is a libel on your good taste ;” slie tried to smile, 
but could not, a tear, a legitimate tear came rolling sud- 
denly from her eye. 

“You are too enthusiastic, dear — do you know that I am 
sometimes jealous.” 

“ Of whom, Clarence ? tell me.” 

“No one in particular — but you are such an etherial 
being, I am afraid, some day, you will glide from my arms 
like a sunbeam.” 

“You do but jest, Clarence — I am nothing but a wo- 
man — a very frail one too.” 

“ No Kate, you are perfect — too much so for this world; 
I wish you could be, dear, a little less religious.” 

“Less religious!” replied the young wife, as if she had 
not heard aright. “ Clarence, I was just thinking that I 
had not been as faithful in my duty to my Maker, as I 
ought to have been — I have been so engrossed with your 
affection — with your society ” 

“You are entirely too devout, Kate — you ought to con- 
form more to the maxims and customs of the world. You 
are very young, and very beautiful — you ought to be the 
gayest of the gay — join in waltzing, and the amusements 
that surround you. I should glory in seeing you the 
‘ observed of all observers/ I am ambitious Kate, you 
know— and very proud of my wife. If she was only a little 
more earthly — ” 

Kate pressed her lips together, a wild emotion checked 
her utterance. 

“There are some old acquaintances here of mine — I 
should like to astonish them, Kate — I know you would be 
irresistible if you were gayer.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


297 


“I care for no man’s admiration but yours, Clarence,” 
replied Kate. “I am sorry — at least I always feared that I 
was too simple for one so gifted as you. Oh! my husband, 
be well assured of one thing — I will never prove unworthy 
of your regard. I will perform my duty — God helping 
me — but I cannot forget the precepts of my mother, or 
turn from the cross of my Redeemer.” 

“What harm is it to dance a little? — it cannot injure you, 
and would be beneficial to your health, much more so than 
moping about here talking to the moon, and imagining a 
thousand impossibilities.” . s 

“There is no harm in being cheerful and gay,” replied 
Kate, smiling sweetly, “and I will jump and skip with you, 
as much as you please. I have felt very happy since I 
have been here — enjoyed myself very much — but I do not 
believe that a pure-minded wife, feels any additional hap- 
piness, from having the arms of half the men in the house 
around her waist. A wife should be as chaste as the 
icicle that hangs upon Diana’s Temple.” 

“You are too rigid — too musty in your notions for one so 
youthful — but you are very lovely in everything else,” his 
face flushed, and he seemed over earnest. “But I sup- 
pose,” added he “I shall have to bear it ” 

“Clarence,” said Kate, looking him unshrinkingly in his 
eyes, “ I told you before we were married, that I was a 
professor of religion — a member of the church — you knew 
every sentiment of my heart — it was open to your inspec- 
tion — no concealment whatever — all was fair as day — I 
told you often, I was too plain, too simple in my manners 
and ways. Did I not?” 

“Surely you did — and you are the very best wife in the 


298 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


world, only a little too sober — but see, yonder comes 
Frazier, be wishes to be introduced to you.” 

Kate took the arm of her husband, and sought once 
more the brilliant scene. 

She was introduced to Frazier ; but being well acquainted 
with his character, having had it from Elinor Temple, 
she shuddered at the sight of the smooth-faced hypocrite. 

Clarence was afraid of offending Frazier, and having 
nothing to risk on his wife’s behalf, left them standing 
together. 

He invited her to promenade — but Kate coldly refused, 
and seated herself in the first vacant chair that offered 
itself. He threw himself gracefully beside her on an otto- 
man. 

“I have not seen you waltz, Mrs. Duval.” 

“ You never will, sir, I presume — I hope I shall never 
render myself so ridiculous.” 

“ Ah ! indeed, I was not aware of your sentiments.” 

“ Of course not, sir.” 

“ You dance sometimes,” said Frazier with consummate 
assurance. 

“ Never.” 

“ That is very strange, madam.” 

“ Not very.” 

“ May I ask your reasons for being so decidedly singu- 
lar — handsome women are in favor of displaying their 
graces.” 

“ It is against my own convictions of right and wrong, 
and against the tenets of the church of which I am a 
member.” 

“ Oh pardon me, madam, if I ask how one so young 


Mrs. Ben Darbt. 


299 


and so lovely, could give up the pleasures of the world? And 
my friend Clarence, do you expect to keep him in the 
charmed circle? — he has been a sad fellow in his day — you 
will never teach him your doctrines.” 

“ I was not aware that Clarence had ever been wicked,” 
said Kate. 

“ Wicked — Oh ! my dear madam, I did not dare insinuate 
that. Oh ! bless me, no! — I had only reference to our jolly 
meetings, and innocent sprees — very innocent, I assure 
you. Clarence is the life of his company — of course, he 
will desert us now.” 

“ Of course,” repeated Kate dryly. 

Herman Frazier smiled, smoothed his moustache, and 
fixed his tiger eyes on the innocent countenance of his 
friend’s wife. Presently a thought seemed- to enter his 
brain. Suddenly he turned on his heel, and went into the 
saloon where the dancing was in progress — hurrying back 
to Mrs. Duval, he said : 

“Perhaps, madam, you would like to see your husband 
waltz — he has the most beautiful lady in the room for his 
partner.” 

“ He deserves the finest,” replied Kate coolly; “ as to 
his dancing, sir, I have seen him very frequently engaged 
in it — he is admirable in the ball room, or in any situation 
in society.” 

“ Let me insist, Mrs. Duval, on having your hand for 
once only ; it would be conferring an eternal favor. Can I 
not dare beg the favor?” 

“I never dance, sir; and thank fortune! it cannot be 
forced on me as 4 a medicine,’ sir. We will understand 
each other perfectly well, when I say I am the cousin of 


300 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Elinor Temple. I wish yon good evening, sir,” and rising 
hastily, she sought another room and other company. 

“ You cannot wish me to associate with Herman Fra- 
zier?” said Kate, as she and her husband left the rooms. 

“No,” replied Clarence, hurriedly; “but treat him with 
civility. He is not a fit associate for either of us, but he is 
hard to deal with.” 

“He ought to be expelled from society!” said Kate. 

“Well, dear, we will try to shun him; but pray, do not 
offend him. The fact is, we are old college associates, and 
you know, a man never gains popularity by cutting his for- 
mer friends.” 

“ Popularity is purchased very dearly at such prices,” 
said the young wife. 

Clarence accompanied her to their chamber, and excus- 
ing himself for an hour, left her to her own reflections and 
the solitude of night. She undressed herself ; read a chap- 
ter in her bible ; prayed long and fervently; looked out at 
the stars ; thought of home, of mother, and dear, dear 
Elinor. Another hour and another ; the lights went out 
one by one ; the locking of doors ceased ; no steps were 
heard along the halls but the heavy tread of the watch — 
sometimes the cough of an invalid — not often ; then a noise 
of revelry in a distant room. Another hour, and the pale 
bride sought her pillow and wept — wept ! 

The first rays of morning came softly to that silent cham- 
ber ; the lamp was still burning, but Kate was sleeping 
gently as in childhood ; there was a flush on her cheek and 
tears, that lay like ice-pearls on her long eyelashes, told the 
secret of her heart. 

A shadow passes around the couch, with unsteady steps ; 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


301 


the husband of a month draws aside the muslin curtain—^ 
he looks upon the form, so child-like and so helpless — con- 
science stirs up the shattered fidelity of his soul ; he curses 
his weakness ; bitter remorse is working within him ; he 
tries to undress himself, but is perfectly unnerved ; he tries 
to extinguish the lamp, but cannot reach it — he falls back, 
an object of disgust and brutal inebriation. 


302 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Cjiaptet 2 8. 

She rested her head on her hand and wept bitterly. — Waiter Scott. 

When Kate awoke the next morning, the sun was glar- 
ing full on the face of the prostrate form of her husband. 
It was in vain she tried to bring him to himself. Mortified 
by the events of the night, she could not summon courage 
enough to meet the unfeeling crowd below. She closed 
her door against all intruders and commenced packing up 
her wardrobe. 

Clarence had spent the night with the human vultures 
who had so ingeniously beset him. He had broken his 
pledge and lost large sums at cards. Frazier exulted over 
his conquest and took particular pains, as he afterward said, 
to brace him up tight. 

His wife was deeply afflicted, but forced back her emo- 
tions and prepared herself for a campaign of warfare. No 
murmur or reproach reached the ears of Duval. 

This was the first step after marriage. 

That afternoon they returned to New York city. Duval 
paused and determined to reform. He was very popular 
and bid fair to become a distinguished citizen. He made 
many political speeches during the presidential canvass, for 
which he gained the warmest applause. He kept very 
sober and steady for months ; his wife prayed and trusted. 
Ah, me ! if prayers would arrest the victim of intemperance 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


303 


and dash the chalice of poison from his lips, there would 
not be many drunkards. Every devotee of alcohol has 
some fond heart yearning for his reformation; although 
prayers may be unavailing for them still they are never 
lost — they bring to the fountain from which they spring 
blessings subsidiary to every effort of faith and love. 

Clarence, poor Clarence, saw his situation ; he was con- 
scious of the awful precipice before him — the yawning gulf 
below; he heard the music of love wooing him back to his 
earthly paradise; but like one in a dream, he had not 
power to break the charm that bound him. Fortune smiled 
in vain. In vain his friends surrounded him with every 
incentive to sobriety. They sustained and propped him. 

He lamented the crooked paths he had made, but shunned 
not the buoys that marked the shoals and quicksands that 
surrounded him. He acknowledged, with the frankness of 
a child, his delinquencies ; made the strongest and most 
vehement promises to desist from his pernicious habits; 
but when temptation assailed him all was forgotten but the 
enchanted cup. 

After frequently breaking his promises, he felt debased 
and humiliated ; to escape this poignant feeling and to save 
the feelings of his wife, whenever he felt the approach of 
that insatiable thirst for stimulus taking full possession of 
his faculties, he would form excuses for absence — urgent 
business in Washington or Baltimore. Sometimes he did 
not go further than Brooklyn ; he then commenced a regu- 
lar course of voracious absorption. Without leaving his 
room for a week at a time, he consumed bottle after bottle, 
until his nervous system was unable to sustain the tax 
upon its vitality. Entirely prostrated, he would fall into a 


304 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


stupor, which either ended in morbid debility or horrid 
delirium. He would then refrain, recover his usual ability, 
and return home to his wife. Such a course as this, how- 
ever, could not be pursued long without making inroads 
upon his mind, body, and estate. Clarence began to feel 
it in every respect and tried hard to reform ; yes, I will do 
him justice, he tried hard, but his disease had assumed a 
chronic form and required the most potent restoratives. 

A new motive for exertion, a new tie to draw him back 
to the garden of the affections. It came from God, and it 
came in the form of an angel — an earthly angel, sent to call 
him back to virtue. 

Clarence was moved to tears when it was given to his 
arms ; and, laying it on the bosom of its mother, he knelt 
before it and prayed for strength, for nerve, to resist temp- 
tation. Ho doubt, if he had continued his devotion as a 
daily habit, the tempter would have left him — his contrition 
would have availed at last; but this praying once in a great 
while, and under peculiar circumstances, is not as effica- 
cious as that of the woman who pleaded with the judge, 
and who was heard for her importunity, and blessed for her 
faith: 

“ A faith, that shines more bright and clear, 

When tempests rage without — 

That, when in danger, knows no fear, 

In darkness feels no doubt I 

A faith that keeps the narrow way, 

Till life’s last hour is fled, 

And with a pure and heavenly ray, 

Illumes a dying bed.” 

Clarence kept his good resolution for some months. 
Kate had recovered from her confinement, and little Robin 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


305 


was just beginning to “hold up his head, and look like a 
little man,” a requisition which is made untimely and incon- 
siderately of gentlemen babies ! They will hold up theif 
heads soon enough if let alone, and, in course of time, will 
look like men (some never will). However, as I was say- 
ing, Robin began to laugh and crow, and throw up his little 
fat arms as all healthy children do. He was, of course, 
the idol of father and mother. Kate loved him more, 
because he had been the means of reforming his father. 

Women are so confiding, and have been so easily be- 
guiled and deceived, ever since the days of our mother Eve, 
it seems to me, they never will learn mistrust. They catch 
at every little straw, every little fillet of sunshine, that cir- 
cles on life’s waters. It matters not how often the straws 
sink, or the light vanishes, it is all the same — they grapple 
at them again, with renewed avidity ; for life is made up 
of hopes and fears, broken sunlight, and evening shadows. 

Kate promised herself that her husband would never 
drink again. She was so happy, in her own home, with 
her dear Clarence — so steady and reasonable — and her pre- 
cious new baby! 

On New Year’s morning, Mr. Duval dressed himself to 
make his accustomary visits on that day. He never looked 
handsomer ; his wife felt so proud of him as she saw him 
turn from the mirror, where he had taken a last review, to 
see if all was comme il faut . He kissed his wife — tossed up 
the “ little rascal” in his arms, and went out in a charming 
humor with himself and all the world. He had made but 
a few calls, and tasted but few glasses of wine, before the 
demon of insatiable thirst seized upon him ; wife, children, 
friends, respectability, decency — all were forgotten ; his 
26 


306 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


aristocratic adventure ended in a drunken spree, of brutal 
and degraded features. 

Hour after hour passed away. The servants retired to 
rest. Kate sat watching the omnibuses as they passed up 
and down, expecting every moment to see her husband 
spring from one of them. At last the noises ceased gradu- 
ally; the carriages ceased running, and comparative silence 
reigned, where so late all was confusion and discord. 
The rain began to fall, and the wind awoke up as from 
a deep sleep. Bobin opened his eyes, smiled and frol- 
icked, because the bright rays of the gas flickered and 
flared over his cradle. 

Oh ! how I do wish he would come, thought Kate — 
the baby is so lively ! — his papa never saw him in such a 
humor ! dear, precious lamb ! Then she would walk the 
room, and, looking at the comforts which surrounded her, 
solace herself with the thought that she was not entirely 
deserted and miserable, as she might be. She was not 
exposed to the mercy of the elements — she had shelter 
and friends; then the sweet babe (acting as if it were 
“bewitched,”) in the cradle ! Oh ! what a blessing pre- 
cious Kobin was to his lonely mamma ! 

She was still sitting over the expiring coals, half un- 
dressed, trying, in vain, to subdue the gymnastic exer- 
cises of the cradle performer, dreading, she scarce could 
tell what ; the door bell was handled very unceremoni- 
ously. Without waiting to see if the summons was 
regarded by the servant, she glided down, with a shawl 
about her shoulders, and opened the door. She turned 
pale, and would have fainted, in all probability, had she 
not caught in her rapid glance without, the terrible eyes of 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


307 


Herman Frazier upon lier, like the gloating glance of a 
prairie wolf ! 

Clarence was too drunk to walk. Two men were 
supporting him by his arms — his whole body, heavy and 
languid, hung loose and lifeless. The wife comprehended 
the whole matter in a moment. Those men were police 
officers. Frazier and her husband had been drinking. 
They had tried to find the way home, but could not. 
Clarence had fallen over the curb into the gutter. Fra- 
zier had raised a muss, and the police had to be sum- 
moned. 

Clarence Duval — the proud, the noble, the talented, 
the beloved father of her darling boy ! Kate stood firmly 
in the doorway. 

“ Gentlemen / 9 she said, smothering her emotion, 
“please take my husband to his room — the one that is 
lighted.” She held the door as they brought him in, then 
closing it on the form of Herman Frazier, who pressed 
against it. 

“ Desist, sir ! I will let no drunkard enter this house 
but its master !” She fastened the door, and followed 
the officers up. After they had deposited their burden 
upon a sofa, they left, with injunctions from Mrs. Duval, 
to take away with them the man on the steps. Poor hu- 
man nature — how fallen ! — how low ! 

“ Clarence ! Clarence !” said his wife, in a burst of 
agony. Ho answer. The rest of the night was spent 
with a madman! Even the cradle, with the little new- 
comer, had to be removed for safety. This is no fiction — 
but the picture of a home — a drunkard's home ! 


308 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Chapter 29. 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. — As you like it. 

Weeks and months of dissipation wrought a distressing 
change in Clarence’s affairs ; his prospects were under a 
cloud — business ceased — friends became weary of his reck- 
lessness — men of business habits and steady morality 
looked coolly on him. Mrs. Fairmont had moved to the 
country, to rear her small children, and was not apprised of 
her daughter’s situation. His own relatives had borne with 
him until patience was no longer a virtue ; (at least they 
viewed it in that light) his wife’s ample fortune was going 
like snow-flakes beneath a March sun ; how could it be 
otherwise, when there was no management or economy to 
husband its interest ; Kate looked on, and seeing but little 
ground remaining to rebuild her hopes on, was sad and 
almost heart-broken. Reflecting long and gravely on the 
subject, she at last made up her mind. 

It was a dark, rainy night ; Robin had just recovered 
from a violent sickness — Theodore had been his physician, 
and Elinor his nurse ; Clarence had come out from one of 
his “big drunks,” as the Indians call it, and sat moodily 
over the fire, with his hair disheveled — his feet half-way 
in his slippers, the very picture of debauchery — the wreck 
of all that was glorious, brilliant in form, affection and 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


309 


intellect ; Kate, gentle and fresh, as in the first days of 
marriage, watched his every wish, every comfort ; but she 
possessed a sensitiveness which made her recoil from sym- 
pathy ; this was her weak point ; she was proud, and her 
pride had been wounded by the conduct of her husband : 
she resolved to make one more effort to redeem her former 
prospects — -her standing in society ; yes, she would make 
one more struggle before the waves closed over her ! 

Drawing her chair closely beside him, she laid her hand 
on his, and looked him full in his face. 

“ Clarence, did you know that our money affairs are in 
much disorder, and need attention ; that we must sell stock 
to pay debts ?” 

“ How did that come to light ?” asked Duval, grumly ; 
“ it is not a woman’s place to search into her husband’s 
affairs.” 

“ I did not, Clarence; but uncle Temple was here yes- 
terday, and told me that things were getting quite des- 
perate.” 

“ Certainly, I know my own business.” 

“ What are your future plans ; if you will confide in me 
I shall be able to assist you in arranging your accounts.” 

4 4 Attend to house concerns, Mrs. Duval ; look after your 
cook and chambermaid.” 

“I have been my own cook for weeks, Clarence,” replied 
Kate, in a husky voice ; “ my chambermaid left before 
Bob in had the croup.” 

“ I was not aware of that,” replied the husband, with a 
bitter sneer ; “ it is a queer fancy, but it is your business, 
not mine.” 

“ We must curtail expenses,” dear, said his wife, trying 


310 Mrs. Ben Darby. 

to keep up her resolution despite of his nonchalance ; “ and 
I think husband ” 

“ What do you think, I am impatient to hear/’ he said, 
in mock gravity. 

Kate tried to speak, but felt exactly as if she had an india- 
rubber ball working up and down her throat ; she turned 
her face toward the fire, rubbed her hands together nerv- 
ously, and suddenly bent over the cradle. 

“Nay,” cried Clarence, the blood rushing to his tem- 
ples, “ I insist on knowing your thoughts.” 

“ Listen, then,” said Kate, with sudden energy ; “ I 
have long wanted to speak ; I felt it my duty to do so. 
Clarence Duval, hear me. I know that I am doomed to be 
the wife of an habitual drunkard ; I see no other hope — I 
know what is before me ; as you well knew before you mar- 
ried me, I am the child of a drunkard; my childhood — no — I 
never had any childhood ; my early days were spent in 
fear, mortification, and want. I watched my mother’s tor- 
tuous routine of trial and grievances ; I know what is before 
me, but at the same time I feel strong with devotion to you, 
and faith and love in Him who will never forsake me ; I will 
never murmur, nor reproach you, nor desert you; but one 
thing I must insist on — it is all I now hope or expect — take 
me from my friends and playmates — take me to some 
strange land — take me where I am not known ; it kills me 
to see my friends tortured by my misfortunes ; take me to 
some little village on the Ohio river, or to Texas, where 
sympathy is unknown ; there I will endeavor to educate my 
child, and hide myself from the world’s compassion. I can- 
not live here — I will not tax my friends, or seek charity 
from those who look coldly on you ; if I must in the end 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


311 


rely on the generosity of my fellow-creatures, I will crave 
it from the cold-hearted stranger. Draw up your ac- 
counts — settle with my guardians, and let us move off to 
some distant place.” 

Clarence listened in surprise and silence to her words ; 
his heart had not yet lost its every chord of feeling ; tears 
fell from his eyes, and in a burst of enthusiasm he caught 
her in his arms. 

“ It shall be as you please ; you are my guardian spirit ; 
I know and feel that I have destroyed your happiness ; I 

will make no new promises, but I hope, Kate, that 

that the future will recompense you for all your privations.” 

Earth has no reward for her who clings to the drunkard's 
fate with fidelity and trust ; the compensation can be found 
but in the joys of Heaven ; Angels whisper it — God 
gives it. 


312 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Chapter 30. 

And unto man he said, “ Behold the fear of the Lord ; that is wisdom : and to 
depart from evil is understanding. — Job. 

The death of Mrs. Ben Darby was attended by so many 
cruel and offensive incidents, that Elinor never fully recov- 
ered from the shock. The horrible scenes of her last mo- 
ments often forced themselves upon her recollection, in the 
gayest circles. It was a shadow upon the way of life, that 
no sunshine could displace. Death is terrible at all times, 
but its horrors are chased away, when the angel of mercy 
comes to the sufferer with the olive-branch of peace, and 
the Savior's precious relic, “I am with you always, even 
unto the end of the world." Elinor had no cheering evi- 
dence of a re-union with the departed, but shuddered 
whenever a thought of her mother crossed her mind. 

I will say a word here about young Harper, in order to 
show how the dearest objects of life may be obtained by 
the destitute and friendless young man — how all the evils 
of temptation, want and delinquencies may be shunned by 
him, who sets out with a firm resolution never to yield in 
one iota where firmness and trust are the weapons of 
conquest. 

He commenced as poor as ever a boy did, and progressed 
with as little assistance ; but in his conduct displayed such 
noble refinement of mind — such a nice distinction of honor, 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


313 


and such unyielding integrity, that every one relied upon 
him in the fullest faith — even his classmates, who laughed 
at his staid morality and unimpeachable purity of thought. 

Theodore knew that he was poor, and that he had his 
fortune to make and his character to establish in the world. 
He knew, also, that the Temples were interested in his fate— 
that he had a claim upon their interest, at least he had al- 
ways felt that he had. He resolved, from the first, to be 
the builder of his own fortune. The idea of being depend- 
ent on any one, was intolerable to him. He began at the 
foot of the ladder ; but a faithful adherence to truth, and 
the discharge of the duties devolving upon him, no matter 
how arduous, rendered him trustworthy and persevering. 

This indomitable courage, so admirable in man, was a 
bulwark against temptation. He was not gifted like Clar- 
ence ; not handsome and captivating at first sight, nor had 
he such an education ; but he improved every opportunity 
of acquiring knowledge, and lived, with the future before 
him, holding out its bright promise of hopeful success. 
Many a youth has started in life with good principles, and 
a fair conception of right and wrong; but the want of 
moral courage has left them open to new incentives. 

When Theodore left Mr. Temple and Elinor in the omni- 
bus, it was with a determination never to present himself 
before him again in a dependent situation. He despised 
the low, retrograde situation in which he was living, carry- 
ing bricks from morning until night, without relaxation or 
mental advancement. 

“ I will never lift another brick \” cried Theodore, shak- 
ing his fists together, “ never ! I will not be an object of 
pity and compassion to my few friends — such friends too ; 

27 


314 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


I will let them see I am a man — that I can fight the battle 
of life like a hero, and take my stand in society, side by 
side, with them. I will be Elinor’s equal, or never again 
offend her sight. When she receives me again, it shall be 
as a brother. I will not cause the tears to start in her eyes 
because I am friendless and shabby.” He looked at the 
ring on his little finger, which Elinor had forced upon it in 
her childish sympathy. “ No, Elinor, I would rather be 
forgotten than remembered in pity.” 

He was as good as his word, as far as the brick was con- 
cerned. He returned no more to his employer, but putting 
his shirts in his pocket, which Hannah had bought for him, 
he wandered down to Fulton ferry ; he stopped at a stall, 
and bought him a roll for his breakfast. While he sat on 
an old boiler eating his bread, he was accosted by a porter, 
who was carrying baggage on board the Mermaid, bound 
for Cuba. 

“ Square your yards, my lad, and let your uncle pass.” 

“ You are no uncle of mine,” replied Theodore, moving 
up quickly, and smiling in his face. 

“ Can you prove it ?” asked the porter, with a quizzical 
wink. 

“ I do not know that I can.” 

“ Well, never say a thing that you can’t establish afore 
a jury. I say I am your mother’s brother, so come along like a 
good boy, and help us carry this baggage to the Mermaid.” 

Theodore merrily laughed, and taking the heavy carpet- 
bag, followed his new acquaintance on board the Mermaid. 

“ Put it down here, my fine fellow, and let’s go and wet 
our fore-sheet.” 

“ What is that ?” asked Theodore, playfully putting his 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


316 


hand on his shoulder, and smiling trustfully in his face. “Is 
it to drink ?” 

“ Yes, my lad.” 

“ Oh ! well, I will not drink,” said Theodore, with a firm 
look. “I would not do it for my best friend.” 

“ Well, here is a cut of tobacco.” 

“ I never chew,” said Theodore. 

“Why you don’t know what is good,” replied the 
porter. 

“Well, what do you say to a trip on the Mermaid ?” 

“ I should not mind going if I could make it tell,” re- 
plied the youth. 

“How ?” 

“ Get wages, , or do something to give me a lift.” 

“ Come ahead, then, my lark,” said the man. 

Theodore looked around at the strange building with 
genuine delight ; he had never seen any larger vessel than 
the sloops and schooners of the Appomatox and James 
river. Before he was aware of it, his new friend passed 
him forward into the cabin, where he ordered him to pull 
off his hat. 

“Have you succeeded in getting me a boy?” asked a 
pale, intellectual man lying on a sofa. 

“Yes, sir, I have brought a chap here that will do his 
duty. What say you, my boy, to a trip for your health?” 

“All but that!” said Theodore, with his mountain blush.' 

“Health!” repeated- the pale, harassed victim of dys- 
pepsia; “why he would make a statue for a fountain of 
Hygieine !” 

“ Well, to see the world, my boy, what say you?” asked 
his patron. 


316 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“If I could make it profitable,” replied Theodore; “I 
would not care to go, but I am poor.” 

“ You need not tell the gentleman that,” said the porter, 
with a caustic smile. 

“What will you give him, sir?” asked the porter; “you 
see he is poor.” 

“ I will not go as a servant,” said Theodore. 

“What then?” asked the porter. 

“ Sir,” said the youth, approaching the invalid ; “I will 
nurse you, read for you, write, or wait on you, as need 
may be, but I want to do this as your friend ; if my pas- 
sage will be worth that to you, agreed, if not, why ” 

“ There is no harm done, my lad,” said an Irishman, 
who was adjusting the pillow under the sufferer's head ; 
“ can you read ?” 

“Yes, and write almost as good as Mr. ” 

“Who is he ?” 

“Why, my old schoolmaster.” 

“No doubt, a very worthy personage. So you are 
willing to go as a friend and assistant, but not as a 
servant?” 

“ Not as a servant if I can help it.” 

“A friend is a prize, they say,” said the sick gentleman; 
“ I should like to have one — I never have had one — no, 
not one. Well, let us try it. I will pay your passage to 
Cuba. If we can't get along after that, why, we will part 
in peace.” 

“ I will go,” said the boy. 

“Be off for your traps, then,” said the porter. 

“ I have none.” 

“No clothes, my boy?” asked his new employer. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


317 


“ None, sir, but a couple of shirts — I have them in my 
pocket.” 

“ Why, he is a perfect terrapin !” said the porter. 

“You will be after taking leave of your friends, dar- 
lint V 9 said Peter Malone ; “the mother that bore you?” 

“ I have no friends — my mother is in heaven !” 

“ Oh ! I ask pardon; but may-be and you have a nate 
swateheart of your own, who will look for that face of yours 
the day out !” 

“ He is too young for that, Peter,” said the patient. 

“ Mayhap, then, a sweet little creature that loves him 
like a brother.” 

Theodore thought of Elinor, and a chill fell on his heart, 
his lip quivered a moment, but he looked unflinchingly at 
his interrogators. He commenced his new avocations with 
a resolution to meet the approbation of his new friend and 
secure the good opinion of all with whom circumstances 
might throw him. 

The voyage was protracted, yet it was very pleasant to 
Theodore ; its novelty was its chief delight. 

Doctor Mitford was quite young, but his constitution was 
so impaired by early excesses that he looked old and 
almost decrepid. He had set out in life with a fine educa- 
tion, a handsome fortune, and an unsullied character. 

He became fond of his cups, and although he never 
became an habitual drunkard, still it was the greatest 
enemy he had. He drank hard until he found his consti- 
tution failing, his practice declining, and his friends dropping 
off. The young creature, whom his heart had selected for 
its idol, became disgusted with his intemperance and 
returned the gifts of her affiance and parted forever. She 


318 


Mrs. Ben Darbv. 


married a prudent and sober youth of less pretensions and 
left her former lover to weep over the inconstancy of 
woman. He never married but nurtured a morbid disgust 
to the sex and humanity in general. He had gradually 
broken off his intemperate habits and was going to Cuba to 
try the climate. He was pleased with the devotion of Theo- 
dore, who nursed him like a brother and attended to his every 
want. The invalid improved rapidly in his health, and as 
he gained strength, he began to show an increasing interest 
for his young companion. He devoted a part of every day 
to the improvement of his developing faculties. He found 
Theodore a better scholar than he expected, and after a 
year’s residence in Cuba, he commenced business in Hew 
Orleans and Theodore became a student of medicine. 
Doctor Mitford’s business rendered young Harper indis- 
pensable to his employer. He began from this period to 
receive a salary as clerk in the firm of Mitford & Morgan. 
In four years he had saved money enough to finish his edu- 
cation, and, with rigid economy, to support him until he could 
commence practice. He manfully succeeded in working 
through all these difficulties ; after which he came to Hew 
York to perfect himself in his profession by practicing in 
the hospital. 

While at college he became acquainted with Mrs. Sand- 
ford, who was the sister of Doctor Mitford. This will ex- 
plain why he was so interested for that desperate youth. 
When he returned to Hew York, his first thought was the 
Temple family, and when he saw Elinor on the Hew World 
he could scarcely refrain from making himself known, but 
pride whispered, wait a little until you ascend a foot or two 
higher on the ladder of fortune ; and he was patiently abid- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


319 


ing his time, when circumstances threw them together. 
Since that period he had become a constant visitor, and by* 
his manly, independent course of conduct secured the 
esteem of Mr. Temple and the admiration of the ladies. 

Hannah Reeves, who was a very close observer of matters 
in general and love affairs in particular, said that — “ Old 
coals were soon kindled.” 


320 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Cjjujitu 31. 

The sunny Italy may boast 
The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 

And lovely round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise ; 

I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. — Bryant. 

On the Ohio river, more than a hundred miles from Cin- 
cinnati, stands a neat and picturesque village, that hears a 
significant cognomen, but I will, in my simple narrative, call 
it Hap-Hazard ; in the first place, because there are so 
many growing towns on that lovely stream, so nearly re- 
sembling each other, that you might settle down in any 
one hap-hazard, and never hit the right one. In the 
second place, the reader will be very apt to recognize the 
place, if he has ever had the pleasure of trying its unpre- 
tending hospitalities. 

The place I refer to, was composed of a variety of the 
human species. It made up in diversity what it lacked in 
immensity. Many of our western settlements are composed 
of persons from one particular part of the globe. Some are 
nearly all French or Germans ; some are chiefly North 
Carolinians or New Jersey emigrants ; some are settled 
by Catholics, Presbyterians, or Quakers. The majority 
of many of these little villages belong to the Big church, 
as Lorenzo Dow used to express it. But this little village 
is a different affair ; it is a mixture of all things — 


Mrs. Ben. Darby. 


321 


Catholics, Presbyterians, Methodists, Odd Fellows, Sons 
of Temperance, and Spirit Rappers — and dram drinkers. 
It has several churches, a court-house, some dry-good 
stores, one milliner shop, a school-house, and several coffee 
houses (at least they bear that name), and one ice cream 
saloon. 

Hap-Hazard, however, was called a very moral place. 
It was really so, in comparison with many others on the 
river, yet it was a very good field for litigation, and the 
court was well attended by lawyers, and the jail was 
scarcely ever tenantless. 

As you wend your way up from the river bank to the 
center of the town, you are astonished at the “goodly 
prospect” before you; the beautiful hills and dales, covered 
with the richest growth — groves of stupendous beech and 
maple, stretching themselves in primeval beauty ; on the 
right and on the left lay the helter-skelter village ; it was 
planned, no doubt, by some early pioneer, who did not 
understand trigonometry. The sweet little cottages, 
seemed as if they had not been built there, but had floated 
down and rested, in high water, on the hills and in the glens. 
Its white spires, and the old, long, red school-house, gave 
it a very romantic and classical appearance. 

Peter Larkins, in his sojourns westward, had selected 
this little place as the theater of his future performances. 
He reformed in it ; became a member of the Temperance 
Society, and by diligence and continued sobriety, became a 
worthy member of society. With the genuine sympathy of 
an intelligent brotherhood, he succeeded, by degrees, in 
making a very respectable living. He built him a neat 
house, planted an orchard, and had everything in order to 


322 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


receive Susan. And never did a bird fly to its nest in tbe 
willow trunk, with lighter wing, and more tuneful heart 
than that loving wife did to her reformed husband. All 
old scores were wiped out from her remembrance, and she 
thought only of the lover of her youth, and the father of 
her children. 

As Mr. Grimes and his family were preparing to emi- 
grate, at least they had been talking and planing a long 
time, when Peter’s letter came, they unanimously con- 
cluded that it would be better to go together ; and as they 
had no particular object in view, but a new country 
and rich land, it was finally agreed that Hap-Hazard should 
be their future destiny. If I had any thought that my 
reader would be interested in a detail of the many inci- 
dents relative to emigrating:, and the circumstances and dis- 
asters upon their long and hazardous journey, I would 
pause to dwell upon them ; but it is not the point of my 
tale, and it is sufficient to say, that the Grimes’ family, with 
Peter Larkins’ wife and children, bade farewell to their 
old homes, their mountain scenes and wondering friends, 
drew up their stakes, and started westward to the new 
country in the valley of the Ohio. Many were amazed to 
think of people, with plenty around them, going such a 
wild-goose chase into the backwoods, leaving such a nice 
home in a cultivated and refined country, going too to a 
free state, where a white-man had to work like a “ nigger,” 
killing his own pork, and hoeing his own corn; they 
“knowed nobody would catch them at that game,” still 
they looked long and sorrowfully at the little caravan, as it 
wound up the big hill on its western exploration. 

The emigrants from the mountains were very much 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


323 


pleased with tlieir adopted country, and settled down to 
the new fangled ways and manners of the mixed society of 
the village, as if they had never moved in a different orbit; 
they were happy themselves, and tried to make others so. 
It is true, the people did not talk and act exactly as they 
did in old “ Virginny,” but it was not reasonable to sup- 
pose they would, and even if they did, there were many 
things in the western customs, much more desirable than 
some at the Key settlement ; “ anyhow, it seemed more in 
the world,” and more like living. Mrs. Grimes yielded, in 
many respects, to the new opinions which were forced upon 
her, but she always held on to one old notion : “ After all 
is said and done,” she would say, “ the old Virginians are 
the most hospitable people in the world, that is, as far as 
my knowledge extends.” 

The village of Hap-Hazard, by some fortuitous event, 
became also, the resting-place of Clarence Duval. They 
had removed to Cincinnati, much against the will of Kate’s 
friends, but she was steadfast to her plans, believing firmly, 
that her husband would reform under different circum- 
stances. They would leave behind his associates, who 
seemed determined to nip every recuperative bud, by their 
vile temptations ; that in a new land, among strangers, he 
would find none so eager to press to his lips the Circean 
cup, whose fatal draught brutalizes its victim. With such 
hopes, she left home, and friends, luxury, and ease, to fol- 
low the dark way of an insane husband. 

Yes, insane ! How could a man, in the full possession 
of his mental faculties, act so contrary to his interest and 
the happiness of his family. They removed to Cincinnati. 
For months, Clarence was sober. He elicited the notice 


324 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


of the public by his eloquent speeches before the jury — 
gained the patronage necessary to establish him at the bar. 
He was doing liis best to make character in the community, 
when all on a sudden he gave way to his besetting tempta- 
tion; his business was neglected, and the court terms were 
selected as the most desirable period for his mammoth 
sprees. He was often carried from the bar too drunk even 
to preserve order. His gifts of mind, by degrees, rusted, 
as all bright things do, if not used and carefully rubbed 
up. He lost his fine flow of language — his happy tropes 
and figures ; that elegant combination of thought — the sub- 
limation of human intellect. His love for the beautiful — 
the cultivation of art and science, which had at first forced 
those rare scintillations from his matchless genius, had 
no longer power to please. Gloomy, morose and wretched, 
he silently walked from his office on Main street, to his 
little dwelling on the roadside. That small residence, with 
its broken fence, its uncultivated garden, and straggling 
rose-bushes, spoke for itself and its occupants ; but no one 
would ever have dreamed it was the home of the pure and 
refined. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


325 


Chapter 32. 

Ah! gentle dames, it gars me greet, 

To think how monie counsels sweet — 

How monie lengthened sage advices, 

The husband frae the wife despises. — Burns. 

Among the various societies of Hap-Hazard, for the 
benefit and amelioration of the human race, was the “ La- 
dies* Union Missionary Sewing Society.” It congregated 
once in every week, at different houses, suiting itself to the 
convenience of its numerous members. Its officers were 
active and efficient in their operations ; that is, whenever 
they could settle unanimously on a subject. The great feat to 
perform generally was, to bring them into that desirable 
position, for every one had their opinion (who ever knew 
a woman without one?) and held on to their rights with 
great tenacity, and were remarkable for carrying their 
point jpour et contre, as the case might be. I would not 
convey the idea that the ladies of Hap-Hazard were more 
difficult to concorporate in their various propositions, than 
ladies generally are ; but I speak of it as a general thing ; 
and the ladies of the Union Missionary Sewing Society of 
Hap-Hazard were not an exception to the rule. AVomen 
are unionists in the abstract — not in the aggregate. 

The first lady that entered the society, (it met at Mrs. 
Grimes’s), was a pale-faced, weakly looking creature, with 
a hectic cheek. She was dressed simply, and looked as if 
she had not yet concluded to live or to die. She had been 
dying ever since she was married, but some how or other, 


326 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


she made out to get along on the highway of life pretty fast. 
She had breathed on, through her threatening doom, until 
she was thirty-five, and had made her husband the envied 
father of nine boys. Mrs. Grimes said, “ that was all that 
kept her alive !” 

Mrs. Rosburn came in before Mrs. Pinkton had taken 
off her things. She was a very handsome lady — very lady- 
like and affable in her appearance — her language was de- 
cidedly grammatical, and smacked of city experience. No 
one found fault with Mrs. Rosburn’s manners ; yet she did 
not seem very popular, considering she had so many ad- 
vantages, and so many facilities to please. She seated her- 
self in the big rocking-chair, and, drawing out the skirt of 
her black silk dress, smiled complacently, as much as to 
say, I am not quite approachable — pray don’t come too 
close ! There was something in her that could not be 
passed. Mrs. Grimes said “it was the Eastern streak, and 
you might as well try to walk over the Ohio, as to get 
past it !” 

Mrs. Saul Jenkins was the president of the society. She 
was one of your good, kind, bustling old ladies, with a 
heart as large as a millstone, and as soft as a sponge. She 
could cry one minute at the sorrows of her friends, and the 
next, laugh at their ridiculous ways ; her hand was open 
“as day to melting charity,” and whenever anything was 
concocted for the benefit of the poor or the helpless, Mrs. 
Jenkins was sure to be there, and no mistake. To her 
was consigned, by mutual consent, the management of 
affairs. 

“Ladies, I declare I am sorry I kept you waiting so long!” 
said Mrs. Saul Jenkins, bustling into the room where the 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


327 


ladies had already commenced ransacking the baskets for 
unfinished garments, “but our clock run down, for a won- 
der, for it keeps monstrous good time, and that put me a 
little behindhand, and just as I was putting on my bonnet 
to start, in comes Sam Jones to see if he could get the loan 
of our big copper kettle to make apple butter. I went into 
the smoke-house to get it, and lo ! and behold ! Sally had 
left the hickory dye in it ever since I colored the warp for 
my rag carpet ! It took me a full half hour to brighten it, 
and don’t you think, after all, it was too little !” 

“It is morally impossible, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Mrs. 
Pinkton, “to expect a girl to keep things tidy. If you 
believe me, the last time I was at the Society, that great 
gamp of a girl of ours burnt up an oven of bread as black 
as a coal, and the cow got into the back shed and eat up 
a barrel of potatoes and turned over a churn of soft- 
soap.” 

“ La, me ! that would have bought truck enough to make 

7 o o 

two or three shirts for the heathens,” said Miss Fobes, an 
old lady who tried to appear very youthful ; “I do declare, 
what a pity !” 

“Yes, I guess it was a pity, and Mr. Pinkton said 
charity began at home, and that I had better let the Sew- 
ing Society sweat and stay at home and keep things 
posted. Men are so unreasonable, Mrs. Grimes, don’t you 
know it?” 

“ Indeed, not I,” replied the lady addressed; “ they like 
to see things snug at home, in doors and out. I would not 
give a pinch of snuff for one of your poke-easy sort, that 
comes and goes, like a domestic critter, to get his grub, and 


328 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


never knows whether his wife or the kitchen-girl makes 
his tea.” 

“ I would prefer such a man,” said Miss Fobes, “ to one 
like Mr. Sharpe ; he is a real cot-Betty, poking his nose 
into every hole and corner on the premises. Mrs. Sharpe 
never sees a quiet moment. She can’t lend a neighbor a 
making of tea, but he is consulted, or give away an old 
petticoat but what he must survey it from top to bottom to 
see if it is givable .” 

“Well, I declare!” cried Mrs. Lawson, a pretty little 
woman with very black eyes and white teeth ; “if a man 
was to fool about my concerns in that kind of style, he would 
be very apt to catch it. I despise to see them mixing up 
messes or meddling in any way with house concerns. In 
Ken tuck they are raised to know better.” 

“ Indeed, I think it is as much their duty to see to things 
as the wife’s,” said Mrs. Bosburn ; “ the New England men 
make the best husbands in the world ; they are so handy — 
especially with cows and butter.” 

“ Well, well ! I had rather see a bear-fight than to see a 
man churning. La ! Mrs. Bosburn ! I hope you don’t use 
your husband for that purpose ?” said Miss Fobes, laying 
her work down on her lap and laughing heartily. 

“ Dr. Bosburn never does anything beneath the dignity 
of a gentleman,” replied his lady drawing herself up very 
proudly. 

“ Never let him churn then,” added Miss Fobes. 

“ How mistaken you are, Miss Fobes!” said Mrs. Over- 
ton, playfully; “I think it the pleasantest thing in the 
world to have Henry pottering round the house and kitchen 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


329 


with me, helping me to peel apples or string beans, or rock 
one side of the cradle while I rock the other.’ ’ 

“ Of course,” said Miss Fobes, sarcastically; “ I would 
not object to the latter employment as it must be so very 
profitable 1” 

“I am like Mrs. Overton,” said Mrs. Grimes, looking 
benignly over her spectacles; “I like the men folks, and I 
will own up to it, and I believe there is only one in ten but 
what would do right if his wife would only let him.” 

“Oh! Mrs. Grimes!” cried Mrs. Pinkton. 

“ It is a fact — I know it,” said the old lady. 

“ I am never happy without my husband is at home,” 
said Mrs. Judge Wilford; “ although I have been married 
twenty-five years, and have lived half that time alone, for 
he is always nearly on the circuit.” 

“ La ! Mrs. Wilford ! I would not be tied to any one that 
way,” cried Miss Fobes. 

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Pinkton. 

“Where is Mrs. Larkins?” asked the lady president; 
“ she does not attend very regularly.” 

“ Susy has her hands full at home, I guess,” replied 
Mrs. Grimes; “she han’t no notion leaving unless every- 
thing is just so . She never neglects home — she had rather 
pay the fine. All who are engaged in this good cause 
ought to double diligence at home — never curtail domestic 
comfort ; for when a man comes home and finds his wife 
gone he is very apt to conceit half his comfort is gone, but 
if he is put off with a half-cooked supper and a dirty table- 
cloth, and the young ones cutting up, he falls out of humor 
with himself and everybody else. I never knew a hungry 
28 


330 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


man, under such circumstances, anything but ill-disposed 
some way; such times I feel for them.” 

“ Oh! yes! they are lords of creation, and ought to be 
attended to above all things. Now I think, a woman has 
her rights, or should have them,” said Miss Fobes. 

“ That is well put in, Miss Eliza,” cried Mrs. Tucker; 
“ for my part, I think they are very little but slaves — worse 
than some slaves I know. I can’t see that they have any 
rights at all.” 

“All a mistake, Mrs. Tucker,” replied a little pale-faced 
lady in a green tissue with a pink neck-ribbon and a cameo 
breastpin as large as a door-knob ; “she has a right to stay 
at home and have a baby every fifteen months ; to make 
pies and corn dodgers — that is, if she can get the where- 
withal to make them ; then she has a right to work, to 
patch her husband’s pants ; to sew on his everlasting but- 
tons ; to set up every night with a sick child, until he comes 
home from the Odd Fellows’ Hall, or the temperance 
meeting; or if it is election times, you have a right to stay 
home and get up big dinners, while he takes care of the 
president’s business and comes in at meal times, with a 
regiment of Hoosier gougers to muss up the house and spit 
on your clean carpets — but you can’t vote. No ! a woman 
can’t vote.” 

“Nor figure in the Senate,” said Miss Fobes. 

“No,” said Mrs. Grimes; “ God has given her a diffe- 
rent place. Adam was made first, and all creation was put 
under his administration — woman’s place is by his side to 
assist and comfort, honor and obey.” 

“Some husbands,” said Mrs. Pinkton, looking indig- 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


331 


nantly, “ could not be honored even if they were obeyed — 
such poor, pusillanimous ” 

“When I say man” said Mrs. Grimes, “I mean man, 
and not individual brutes.” 

“ I like the men very well in their proper places, and in 
season,” said Mrs. Pinkton. 

“ That is to say, when you want money,” said Miss 
Fobes ; “or to take a trip to the * Falls/ or to New York 
city, or sit up with the sick baby or in case of a thunder- 
storm. Mrs. Jenkins, must I put sleeves in this apron?” 

“Just as you please, dear.” 

“ How do you like our new preacher, Mrs. Rosburn ?” 
asked Mrs. Paine. 

“ I have never heard him.” 

“ Never heard him ! how you talk.” 

“ I attend Mr. Gray's church.” 

“Ah ! indeed!” 

“ Mr. Gray is from the east, is he not ?” asked Mrs. 
Paine. 

“Yes indeed!” replied Mrs. Rosburn, “you can tell 
that as soon as he rises in the pulpit — he is very graceful.” 

“Well, that's the main thing,” said Mrs. Saul Jenkins; 
“if he only has his heart full of grace, that is the best 
gift he can possess.” 

“ I heard some one say he was an Odd Fellow,” said 
Mrs. Tucker. 

“ If there is anything odd about him, I never noticed 
it” replied Mrs. Jenkins. 

“ The Order of Odd Fellows, I mean, Mrs. Jenkins.” 

“ Preachers have no business in such conclaves,” said 
Mrs. Tucker. 


332 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Why, it is a very good institution,” said Mrs. Paine, 
“ and I can’t see why preachers may not reap its benefits.” 

“ Benefits! la! Mrs. Paine,” said Mrs. Pinkton, “do 
you let Mr. Paine pull the wool over your eyes that way. 
I know very well, if there was anything so very good in it 
they would not cover it up so closely.” 

“ They do a great deal of good, I know,” replied Mrs. 
Paine, tartly, and her eyes snapped like a wild cat’s. “Look 
at the widow McKenis — what would she have done if it 
had not been for the Odd Fellows — all the time he was 
sick, they kept him, and paid his doctor bills, and buried 
him — and only see now how genteel the girls look, and 
Walter is going to college — now don’t tell me they are not 
doing good.” 

“ Dear me, Mrs. Paine, you need not flare up that way; I 
mean that a man has no business with secrets — he ought not 
to know anything but what his wife does,” said Mrs. Pinkton. 

“Then some of them would know very little,” whispered 
Mrs. Berryman, a lady with a bright sunny look, and a 
dimple in her cheek. “Please hand me that gusset, Mrs. 
Smith.” 

“ What ! put gussets in a sack ?” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Oh, it is useless — they will not know the difference 
in Ohati.” 

They both laughed heartily at poor little Mrs. Pinkton, 
but the simple soul thought they were laughing at the 
South Sea Islanders. 

K Oh ! wad some pow’r the giftie gie us 
To see oursel’s as ithers see us, 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 

An’ foolish notion.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 333 

But there was no such talisman vouchsafed to Mrs. Pink- 
ton — so she was often found shooting her arrows in the 
dark — sometimes they rebounded. 

Mrs. Smith took her work, and went over to the window, 
where Mrs. Pinkton was cutting out aprons for the coming 
generation. She seated herself, and sewing rapidly with- 
out raising her eyes, said, “ Mrs. Pinkton, was Mrs. Berry- 
man laughing at you ?” 

“ No — why should she V 9 

“ Yes she was !” 

“ Is my collar on straight ?” 

“ Yes — it is very becoming.” 

“ Oh, well ! it could not have been me she was quiz- 
zing.” 

“ She was though ,” answered Mrs. Smith, “ she has a 
fashion of making jests — these western people all do it 
and we never get thanked for trying to refine them — they 
are so rude and so uncouth. I wonder if Indiana will ever 
be civilized,” continued Mrs. Smith, raising her voice for 
the benefit of her listeners. 

“ After a while — I hope it will, at least,” said Mrs. Kos- 
burn, “ there are a great many eastern folks coming out — 
indeed there is a great change since I came.” 

“ When I came out,” said Mrs. Smith, “ I did not think 
I could stand it a week longer — we could not get anything 
we wanted — and the houses are put up like barns, and with 
so little judgment — no pantries, no dressing closets — the 
poorest dwelling in New England is better fixed.” 

“ After all, however,” said Mrs. Berryman, triumphantly, 
“ Indiana is the fifth State in the Union.” 

" Gracious ! I don’t see how that can be,” cried Mrs. 


334 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


Pinkton, “it ain't the fifth, in my opinion, by a dozen — I 
never shall be able to enjoy myself here." 

“ Why don't you go back ?" said Mrs. Berryman, “ no 
use suffering here, when you could be so happy at your 
old home." 

“Well, Mr. Pinkton gets a fine practice here — the place 
is well calculated for his business — we came out to make 
money. 

“ He skins the Hoosiers, and you abuse them — that is 
not fair," said Mrs. Berryman laughing. 

“Ho," cried Mrs Jenkins, “you must not drink the 
milk and kick the can — it ain't good policy." 

“When we first came out here," said Mrs. Smith, “I 
went over one day to Timothy Strong's carpenter shop, and 
asked him if he had any ready-made paste-boards; says he, 
‘ Ready-made — I don’t know what you mean.' " 

“ * Have you any paste-boards V said I. " 

“ ‘ Ho madam — we never deal in the article — you can 
find lots of them at Miss Dickens's milliner shop.' " 

“ He thought you meant bonnet boards." 

“ Precisely so." 

“He was quizzing you," said Mrs. Berryman, “you 
know we Hoosiers can do that” 

“ Hot a bit of it, madam ! — he did not know any better — 
but see, I have sewed this seam up, wrong side upward — 
what a pity — I thank you for the scissors, Mrs. Paine." 

“Mrs. Smith, that was not as bad as the mistake between 
Patsy Fields and myself. She came over to our house 
one morning, I was busy knitting, ‘ Mrs. Pinkton,' said 
she, ‘ won’t you be pleased to loan mother a spider, a little 
one will do, so its legs ain't off.' ‘Ho Patsy/ says I, ‘what 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


335 


under the sun does your mother want with a spider ?’ ” 
‘ It is a very queer notion, Mrs. Pinkton, I know, but sick 
folks will have strange idees — all at once, mother took a 
fancy to biscuit, and she says she must have spider 
biscuits.’ ” 

“ ‘ Laws me ! what a notion — it’s enough to kill her/ 
says I. ‘ No/ said Patsy, ‘ the doctor said she might 
have them, provided we did not make them too rich.’ ” 

“ ‘ And how do you make them, Patsy ?’ said I.” 

“‘Just like other biscuits/ said Patsy. ‘After you 
work them well, you roll them out and cut them, and lay 
them on the board, and then they are ready for the spider/ 

‘ Marcy ! child/ said I, ‘ you will make me cascade ; go 
along, I have no spiders, and if I had, I could not bear to 
handle them.’ So home she went, and we have never 
been friends since. She said I was the proudest and the 
stingiest lady in Hap-Hazard. She knew I had three spi- 
ders — big, fine ones ; she saw them turned up under the 
dresser.” 

“ Talking of doctors,” said Mrs. Lawson, “ puts me in 
mind of Jane Groves. They say she is going to be mar- 
ried to Dr. Carrington.” 

“You don’t tell me ?” said Mrs. Jenkins. 

“ Yes, and they say Tom Carrington is sitting to Kitty 
Sparks, and I should not wonder if it was true. He wears 
one of Kitty’s rings ; Sally Allen said she saw it, and 
would be qualified that it was hers.” 

“ That will raise Mrs. Sparks a foot,” said Miss Fobes, 
“getting into such a big set.” 

“ Sally marrying Eli Sands will balance accounts,” said 
Mrs. Smith, spitefully. “ He ran off to California, and left 


336 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


her without a dime, and if it had not been for the Odd 
Fellows, at New Albany, she never could have reached 
home ; but he died on the route, and the Order made up 
money to send Mrs. Sands home.” 

“ And they tell me that Nathan Peck is going to take 
another wife.” 

“ La, me ! Mrs. Jenkins, and his wife ain’t been dead 
three months,” said Miss Fobes. 

“ Yes, ’Liza, I guess its four.” 

“ No, Mrs. Jenkins,” cried Mrs. Lawson, “its only three ; 
when was election ?” 

“ The first Monday in August.” 

“Well, his wife died the day after.” 

“I know it is four months,” said Mrs. Lawson, “for it 
was the very day my Alice Olivia was born, and she is four 
months old to-day.” 

“Oh ! I give it up,” said Miss Fobes, “your almanac 
is correct data. Dear me ! we must sew faster, or we shall 
not get through this pile of steam loom.” 


Mrs. Ben Darbt. 


337 


Ctjajiter 33. 

il There’s some exception man an’ woman, 

But this is gentry life in common.” 

There was a little interruption in the conversation of the 
ladies of the Union Missionary Sewing Society, occasioned 
by the entrance of a member. She came in panting and 
rolling up her large blue eyes, as if she had been driven in 
by a clap of thunder, and threw herself, apparently ex- 
hausted, on the first seat which presented itself, and begged 
some of the ladies to give her a glass of water. She was 
a very fine looking woman, as Mrs. Jenkins said, if she 
would only let herself be, but she put on so many airs and 
outlandish ways, and claimed so many attentions, that there 
was nothing of herself left. She was quite tall, her fore- 
head high and expansive, for a woman’s to be, but Mrs. 
Stella White Rumsey thought she had as good a right to 
use certain fine sharp-edged instruments as the other sex, 
and there was no reason she could not have as intellectual 
a forehead as any one else. So she shaved it up in front, 
to suit her ideas of a model brow. 

She was a poetess, and had written many communications 
over the signature of “ Stella Sebella.” She occupied 
the poet’s corner in the Hap-Hazard Telegraph. She was a 
harmless member of the Society. It is true, she did very 
little toward its advancement. She was ever so completely 

wrapped up in her own wild cogitations, that the gossip 
29 


338 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


flew by her “ like the idle wind, which she regarded not. ,, 
Whenever her vote was needed, or her opinion desired, 
(which the ladies sometimes did her the compliment to 
crave) her thoughts had gone forth into the interminable 
fields of imagination. Sometimes she was seated in a 
“ bower of roses by Bendemer’s stream,” or in 

“ A gorgeous hall 

Lighted far up for festival; 

Braided tresses and cheeks of bloom, 

Diamond agaff, and milk-white plume ; 

Censers of roses, vases light, 

Like what the moon sheds on a summer’s night — 

Youths and maidens with linked hands 
Joined in the graceful saratiSlnds,” 

or roaming through Eden with Milton or with the lovely 
young Lavinia, gleaning Palaemon’s fields or lingering in 
the fertility of her own poetical vision. 

After recovering her composure, she begged the ladies 
to excuse her late arrival. She said she had become so in- 
tensely engrossed in her book, that she was perfectly un- 
conscious of the rapidity of time. Before she was aware 
of it, she found herself wandering with Bryant in his au- 
tumnal woods. 

“ Where the gay company of trees look down 
On the green fields below.” 

“ Ain’t she brazen ?” whispered Mrs. Jenkins to Mrs. 
Smith. “ I’d be ashamed to tell it — tramping through the 
commons with a man — a married man, too. It ain’t fair — 
if I was Mrs. Bryant, I’d hoist her, certain.” 

“ She means the poet,” said Mrs. Smith. 

“ It matters not what he is ; he is no great shakes, or he 
would not be leading another man’s wife astray.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


339 


Mrs. Smith put her foot on Mrs. Jenkins’s toe ; Mrs. 
Lawson looked at Mrs. Paine, and smiled knowingly. 

Mrs. Stella White Bumsey fanned herself, declaring she 
was nearly expiring with heat — that she was quite fagged 
out ; for the last week she had been dragged from pillar to 
post, in her late visit to Cincinnati. She declared folks had 
no mercy — no feeling. 

“ That is the natural consequence of being a lioness,” said 
Mrs. Berryman, with a wicked twinkle of her eye. “ If 
you will dance, you must pay the piper.” 

“How do you think Harriet Beecher Stowe stands it? 
Did you ever read Uncle Tom’s Cabin?” 

“ Never,” said Mrs. Bumsey ; “ I am very sure nothing 
could be interesting where the hero is a great double-jointed 
negro.” 

“ But it is interesting,” said Mrs. Lawson ; “I know it 
don’t pretend to be a history of the great and the refined ; 
it was written to do good ; I could not put it down after I 
took it up until I got through. When Lotty Jane got hold 
of it, I thought in my soul she would have growed to the 
chair ; says I, ‘Lotty, come to supper ?’ ‘Oh ! mother/ she 
says, ‘ I can’t eat while Eliza is walking over the river with 
her boy / and how the poor thing cried when that monster 
had poor, dear, old Uncle Tom flogged.” 

“La! Miss Lawson, I thought you Kantuck folks believed 
in flogging ?” 

“ Not that kind, and under such circumstances,' such a 
faithful creature. Ought I to put a ruffle on this sleeve, 
Miss Jenkins ?” 

“ If you have bits enough left, you had as well set it off 


340 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


a little ; it will give it a finished look. Did you say Pris- 
cella Vaugh was a medium ?” 

“ Yes, I did that very thing.” 

“She denies it, and says she never had communication 
with a spirit in her life. ,> 

“ I said she was a medium for tattlers ; as to the spirits, 
Mrs. Lawson, all I have to say is, there are more kinds 
than one.” 

“Do you believe in the rappers ?” 

“ I cannot say I do ; but there is something mighty 
strange in it.” 

“Were you ever at Mrs. Baker's, to see the medium 
from Cincinnati ?” 

“ 'Shaw,” said Miss Fobes, “it is all humbug, and if it was 
a fact that were done, it is witchcraf, and as such I eschew it.” 

“ It is very queer — you will allow that, Miss Fobes. You 
know Tilman Burns ?” 

“Oh, yes, everybody knows Tilman.” 

“Well, Tilman Burns came over to our house; we were 
peeling peaches to dry, and were sitting in the back porch. 
Jane Shaw was there ; she was sitting between Lotty Jane 
and William Henry, and she threw a peach and hit Til. 
plump in the mouth ; with that they commenced romping ; 
they turned over a tub of peaches; broke a five gallon crock 
filled with nice clings, all cut and stoned, ready for the kiln; 
poor Jane got her foot very badly cut, and Tilman streaked 
it for the Doctor; and when he found him he was at Mrs. 
Baker’s, and he says, that when he went in, the little table 
that always sets by the cupboard was following the girl 
round the room !” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


341 


“ Mrs. Lawson, that is some of Tilman’s yarns.” 

“ He says he saw it.” 

“ Does the Doctor believe in it ?” 

“ In course he does ; he has had communication with 
several spirits.” 

“ Some of his departed patients ?” says Mrs. Berryman. 

“ Has he quit drinking?” asked Mrs. Tucker. 

“ Yes, I believe so.” 

“ It has come to him lately, then,” said Pinkton. 

“Ever since his shop burned down; you know every 
body said that he set it on fire himself, with mixing up his 
trucks, when he was tight.” 

“ Mrs. Tucker, I would not live with a drunkard ; it is 
dangerous. How, there is Mrs. Williams, she can’t be per- 
suaded to leave her husband ; she loves him in spite of 
everything.” 

“ It is a mystery to me, and always has been, how a 
woman can love a drunkard ; living with him is another 
affair. If Mr. Pinkton drank I might live with him ; but I 
tell you he would have a hot house.” 

“ If my husband was an inebriate, said Mrs. Stella White 
Rumsey, I should pity him, and ‘ pity swells the tide of 
love ;’ I could not forsake him, and leave him to the con- 
tumely of the world ! oh, no, 

4 Ties around this heart are spun, 

Which cannot, will not, he undone.’ ” 

“ Some men can’t help it,” said Mrs. Grimes, “that is, if 
they give themselves up to it at first, it becomes a chronic 
disease, and needs a physician and a remedy as much as 
the liver complaint or cholera ; they ought to be taken care 
of and treated like patients.” 


342 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


44 It pains me to see that poor young creature, who lives 
in Mrs. Parson's old house," said Mrs. Rosburn; 44 they 
say she is -suffering." 

“ Suffering, and we working for the Hottentot!" cried 
Mrs. Grimes ; 44 we are not half doing our duty." 

44 Her husband comes home drunk every two or three 
days ; sometimes he is very boisterous," said Mrs. Smith. 

44 She is lovely," said Mrs. Rumsey, 44 very lovely; I saw 
her in Cincinnati." 

44 Where do they hail from ?" asked Mrs. Jenkins. 

44 Hew York city." 

44 Some poor, broken scamp, come out here to recruit," 
said Mrs. Berryman; 44 in a year from now he will be on stilts, 
looking down on the whole community; that is the way the 
Eastern people do ; they come here from Lowell, or the 
Bowery, in Hew York, with nothing but assurance ; with 
that raw material they work themselves into office ; then 
they get the 4 big head.' " 

44 Yes, the Lowell girls come out as missionaries of 
science, to illuminate with radiance these chaotic regions, 
where the sun of knowledge has never yet risen," said Mrs. 
Rumsey. 

44 It is best not to answer that," whispered Mrs. Ber- 
ryman. 

44 1 don't take that, Mrs. Rumsey; I am a Hew Eng- 
lander," said Mrs. Roseman ; 44 but I despise allusions." 

Mrs. Jenkins declared that the sun was down, and it was 
time to adjourn. The ladies themselves began to imagine 
that domestic affairs needed some little attention ; so they 
folded up the garments they had finished, packed away the 
remnants for future consideration ; then, gathering bonnets 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


343 


and shawls, sacks and mantillas, they went through the 
parting scenes as usual ; and as some of my readers have 
never been so fortunate as to partake of the hospitalities of 
the West, I will proceed with my delineation. 

“ Mrs. Grimes, I wish you good morning/ ’ said Mrs. 
Rossman, bowing herself gracefully ; “ I shall be happy to 
have you call.” 

“ The sight of you, Mrs. Grimes, on Cross street, 
would be good for sore eyes/’ said Mrs. Lawson. 

“ Well, IT1 try and come before long. Don’t wait for 
me/ 

“ Now see that you do !” 

“ Mrs. Lawson, I hope you have not forgotten the way 
to our house !” 

“Not by a long ways, Jane. I had a half a mind to 
go down on Friday, but it rained powerfully before I could 
start.” 

“ Why don’t you never come up Mrs. Berryman?” 

“ I have been six times to your once !” 

“All but that ! I know very well I was at your house 
last ! Don’t you recollect the day Jemima got her foot 
scalded ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, very true ; well, come again — don’t be cere- 
monious.” 

“ Mrs. Pinkton, I think you make yourself very 
scace !” said Mrs. Jenkins, as she tied on her bonnet. 

“ I have been staying with Sally Ann. You know Sally 
Ann has a pair of beautiful twins ?” 

“ No ! has she ?” 

“Yes, and boys at that !” 

“ Did you ever !” 


344 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


“ Mrs. Berryman, how do you like Mrs. Rumsey’s way 
of trimming the forehead ?” whispered Mrs. Smyth ; “does 
it not look classical ?” 

“ Take away the e-1, and you will have it exactly/’ re- 
plied Mrs. Berryman, laughing, and throwing on her man- 
tilla ; it takes a heap of people to make a world, Mrs. 
Smyth !” 

“ It does that!” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


345 


CjjEjibr 3£. 

Loveliest of lovely things are they 
On earth, that soonest pass away; 

The rose, that lives its little hour, 

Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. — B ryant. 

It was Indian summer ; everything was beautiful and 
quiet. The air was soft and rich with autumnal fragrance. 
Nature was trying to recover her June looks ; but Time's 
treacherous finger had touched every leaf and flower ; 
decay was doing its work in the germ and in the sap. The 
colors were bronzed and crimsoned by the heat; crisped 
by the early frosts. Beauty still haunted the forest-hills, 
and lingered on the banks of La Belle Riviere. Wreaths 
of mist gathered about the horizon, and covered the sun, 
as if with a retecious vail. Threads of gossamer were 
linked from leaf to leaf of the ash trees and the birch, 
floating like silver tissue in the light breeze from the lazy 
limbs of the weeping willow. There was music in the 
woods — the choral of the summer birds — lingering about 
their old haunts, awaiting the northern winds, to depart to 
new homes — the melody was so memorative, so sweet, yet 
so very sad. The flowers were almost cheated by appear- 
ances, and were half inclined to peep out and try the reali- 
ties of the season. 

It was the period of rest, inertness, and reminiscences ; 
and as Kate Duval sat at her cottage door, under the mul- 


346 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


berry tree, that threw its shade over her humble resting- 
place — resting place ! No ! she was like the dove of the 
ark — the waters abroad were too turbulent and deep. She 
found no spot for the sole of her foot ; she fled to the mov- 
ing ark. So Kate’s thoughts were fixed on the ark of the 
covenant — the pavilion of God’s love ; the rest prepared 
for the sorrowful and despised of earth, 

“ Oh ! who could bear life’s stormy doom, 

Did not thy wing of love 
Come lightly beaming o’er the gloom, 

Our peace-branch from above !” 

Kate sat near a scanty pallet, on which was extended the 
suffering little Bobin, her bright, beautiful boy, reduced to 
skin and bone. His large, mysterious eyes were turned 
upward, watching the flitting of the leaves and the fila- 
ments of sunshine that peeped through the thick foliage of 
the wulticaulis . An infant about a month old, meager, 
weary of its existence, and petulant with pain and lassitude, 
lay on her bosom, and she, in vain, trying to charm it to 
repose. 

“ Mamma,” said Robin, reaching out his waxen hand, 
“ take me to your bosom.” 

“ Yes love, as soon as little Maria is still.” 

“ Mamma, if God had not sent us that little cross baby, 
you could love me and nurse me as you did when I was 
sick at Cincinnati. My throat is hot, mamma. I wish I 
had a drink in a tumbler — glass tumbler, mamma, and I 
could look through it.” 

“ Dear, you shall have a tumbler,” cried Kate, her lips 
quivering with emotion, and a wild fire in her eyes. 

“ Yes, mamma, one cool drink in a tumbler, and your 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


347 


little Bobin will fly tip, up there where that little bird 
sits. Will papa come to-night, and get us bread? you 
said he would. Will he get me a tumbler of water ? No, 
mamma, if he comes he will be drunk — nobody ever gets 
drunk in heaven, mamma ?” 

“No, no, my son — my angel.” 

“ No one says cross words, mamma, darling ?” 

“No — bless your sweet tongue.” 

“ And there is cool water there, and silver cups ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, my child, a fountain of living waters.” 

“ And it never gets dark there ?” 

“Never! never!” and the tears fell in streams down 
Kate’s pale cheek. 

“ And nobody gets sick there and dies ?” 

“ No 0 my love.” 

“ If they was to, God would let the angels bring them 
water, I know he would — from the big fountain — Oh 
mamma, don’t cry — do people cry in heaven ?” 

“ Oh ! sweet one, God wipes away all tears,” replied the 
weeping mother. 

“ And the angels kiss them off I ’spose — but tell me, 
mamma, will he come there ?” 

“ Who, my son ?” 

“ You know mamma — papa.” 

“ Hush, Bobin dear, lie still, you worry yourself.” 

“ Oh ! my throat ! Dear me, if I only had a little water 
in a tumbler, mamma — just one mouthful.” 

“You shall have it — see there comes your papa — he 
will get you fresh water.” 

“Oh ! Clarence, poor little Bobin is worse — his fever is 
very high. He wants to drink water out of a tumbler, and 


348 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


I have not one in the world to give him — he must not die 
without — ” 

“ Well, you would come where there is no sympathy — 
I hope you are satisfied.” 

4 4 But you will get a tumbler for our poor boy ?” 

“ I have not a cent in the world — I just spent the last 
for bread — here it is,” and he drew a loaf of bread from 
his pocket. 

“ There is twenty-five cents, Clarence, do haste, and get 
him a tumbler — Clarence, he may die ” 

“ Papa ! papa !” said little Bobin, holding out his arms, 
“ I am so hot, and so sick — will you papa, will you — -just 
this once?” 

“ My poor boy,” said Clarence, leaning over the little 
withered flower — Oh ! God it is too much ! What a wretch 
I am !” 

“ Papa, don’t cry,” said Bobin, putting his little fingers 
to his father’s eyes, “ don’t cry, but be good — poor mamma 
loves you so — did you come home drunk last night? I 
dreamed you did, and that you struck mamma ” 

“ Oh ! hush, Bobin, love — don’t talk so much.” 

“ Papa, you will not come home drunk, when you go 
after my little tumbler, will you ?” 

Clarence tore himself from the little arms that were 
twined around his neck, and drawing his hat over his eyes, 
hastened down street as fast as he could go. Hour after 
hour passed away, and he did not return. The sun was 
down, and still he did not come. 

“Why does papa stay so?” asked the suffering child, 
“ I know he is drinking somewhere.” 

“ Be quiet love, he will come, and ” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


349 


“ Yes,” cried Bob in, starting from tbe pillow and 
looking wildly around, “ he will come after lie buys whisky 
with the money, and leave me no tumbler. Oh ! he is a 
wicked father,” and the poor little sufferer trembled with 
excitement. 

“ Lie down, my darling,” said Kate in a low voice, for 
her heart was full and her frame very weak, “ watch little 
sister, and I will have a glass for you — yes, Bobin, you 
shall, love.” 

Gathering her shawl about her, she drew the door to 
and darted over the commons to a fine building, newly 
erected, but there was no one in ; she then turned to a very 
comfortable house that stood directly behind; she opened 
the gate and hurried wildly in. 

An old lady was busily engaged in arranging her table 
for the evening meal, with all the full compliment of a 
plentiful repast — I mean a Hoosier supper. Turning, she 
saw the delicate stranger, trembling so nervously that she 
could neither speak nor move. 

She had, as if by instinctive power, ventured into the 
proper place — the home of kind feelings. 

Mrs. Grimes dropped the cream mug from her fingers, 
and caught her in her arms and drew her to the lounge. 

“ Oh ! madam,” cried Kate, “ are you a mother?” and 
Kate in great agitation, seemed almost crazy. 

“ Be sure I am, child, and will be one to you — speak 
out — what is the matter ?” 

“My child, my dear boy is ill — very ill, and all he 
craves is a glass to drink from — Oh ! madam, pardon me, 
misfortune has made me simple,” and poor Kate cried as 
if her heart would break. 


350 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 




Mrs. Grimes wiped the tears from her cheek, and taking 
her hands between hers said, “ Now, dear, tell me, who 
are you ?” 

“My name is Duval — I live in the little brown cottage 
over the way — but I left my children alone, and must go 
back — Oh ! madam, thank you.” 

When Kate entered her humble roof, she found both 
children asleep, and before Robin awoke, she had in a 
measure recovered from her agitation, but her tears were 
still flowing. Sympathy, that mighty pacifier of human 
wretchedness, fell upon her burning heart like the morning 
and the evening dew. 

When the little boy awoke from his troubled slumber, 
his bright eyes danced as his mother handed him, not only 
a glass of water, but it had a piece of ice in it. It cooled 
his throat, and he seemed quite revived until his father re- 
turned, which was sometime after night came on. He was 
very drunk. He had forgotten what he went after, until 
his poor boy, with infantine earnestness, recalled it. But he 
only laughed hideously, and said, “Better luck next time, 
my boy!” 

“ I won’t be your boy any more, papa,” said the child 
faintly, “ I am mamma’s.” 

“ Ah ! how so, Robin ?” 

“See here what mamma got — didn’t you, mamma?” 
and he held the precious glass in his trembling hands. 

“ The devil she did,” cried Clarence, snatching it from 
him. “ Then you did not give me all the money you had, 
but deceived me !” 

“I did, indeed, I did, Clarence ; only hear me.” 

He was in a rage which knew no bounds. Forgetting all 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


351 


her love and devotion, he ground his teeth, and looking, 
with all the evil of his nature concentered in one glance, he 
threw the precious tumbler at her. “ Teach my son,” he 
said, 4 To hate me!” 

The missile fell against the wall, and broke in pieces. 

The sick child was so terrified that he became entirely 
delirious, and springing from his bed, ran to the corner of 
the room, where, overcome by his exertion, he lay panting 
and nearly senseless. 

Kate had risen to her feet. She held her puny babe in 
one arm, and was about passing her husband, when he 
seized her roughly by the arm, and held her back. 

‘ ‘ Where are you going, madam ?” 

“ To my child, my Robin — don’t you see he is dying ?” 

“ All a ruse to get past me,” cried Clarence. 

“ Oli ! Clarence, see, he is in a convulsion,” and she 
struggled to get away. 

“ Let me go, Clarence Duval, or you will rue it until the 
day of your death. Oh ! my poor, dying boy, is there no 
help ?” 

A slight rap was heard at the door, and Clarence had 
scarcely time enough to release his wife, before Mrs. 
Grimes turned the latch and stood before him. 

“ We want no intruders here, good woman,” said Clar- 
ence, turning his rage upon the new-comer. “ So take 
yourself off!” 

“ I will, when I get ready,” replied Mrs. Grimes, coolly, 
taking up the struggling child. “ Your child is very sick, 
madam — poor little fellow.” 

“ Oh ! yes,” said Kate, “tell me, is he dying — will he 
die ? my own sweet Robin.” 




352 Mrs. Ben Darby. 

“ Peiliaps not,” replied Mrs. Grimes, feeling his pulse; 
“ he is cold ; give me something to wrap him up in. Ah ! 
that will do; his feet are cakes of ice.” 

“ When we want your services, madam,” said Clarence, 
menacingly, “ we will send for you — do you hear ?” 

“ Be quiet, sir, or I will have you put where all such 
birds ought to be.” 

“ This is my house, and I am master of it.” 

“ And a sorry looking concern it is,” said Mrs. Grimes ; 
“ I’d be ashamed to tell my name if I was a New York 
lawyer, and could live in no better fix. As to being master, 
it is a pity you can’t master yourself ; I am sorry for you, 
indeed and double .” 

“ Look here, I want you to leave !” 

“ I don’t care a snap of my finger for such as you, sir — 
I despise a person that has nothing of the man about him 
but his breeches. If you don’t like me, why you need not 
look at me, that’s all that’s in it ; I mean to stay here and 
assist your poor wife, with her sick child. Have you no 
help, ma’am ?” 

“ None but Heaven,” said Kate, in a low tone. “ Excuse 
me, madam, I must weep ; I can’t help it.” 

Clarence went off, grumbling, and Mrs. Grimes set about 
searching every hole and corner, “to rake up,” she said, 
something for supper ; but she found no flour-barrel — no 
coffee-mill — no gridiron — no tea-caddy. 

“How some people can live, is a mystery to me,” said 
she, as she investigated the kitchen in despair, “here is 
nothing to cook, and nothing to cook it in ; a drunkard’s 
pantry, surely.” 

She bathed the little boy in warm water ; gave him some 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 353 

saffron tea, and actually brought the disease out ; bis face 
became crimson. 

“ As I hope to be saved, Mrs. Duval/' said the old lady, 
peering over him with the candle, “ your boy has the mea- 
sles ; see, they are out thick as hops — well, I’ll declare !” 

“ The measles !” cried Kate, springing forward with re- 
newed hope, “‘then, perhaps, he will get better.” 

“ He will, that very thing, dear ; the worst is all over 
now ; keep him well wrapped up, and give him a-plenty of 
tea, and he will do finely ; take good care, and fasten up 
your door — I will be back in a few minutes. Do you feel 
ill?” asked Mrs. Grimes, as she noticed that Kate held her- 
self up by the bedstead post, and looked so feeble, “ per- 
haps you are weary ; lie down by your children. What is 
it ? do tell.” 

“ Starvation !” said Kate, with a wild, unearthly stare, 
“ starvation ! I have worked hard — my strength has 
failed — my baby drains my constitution — it feeds upon my 
life. I thought to die unpitied, but oh ! your sweet, kind 
voice stirs up thoughts of home — of mother — of brother, 
and all the dear ones of old.” 

“ Oh ! don’t cry, mamma,” said little Robin, when he 
saw her weeping on Mrs. Grimes’s shoulder. “ Papa 
brought you some bread.” 

“Yes, Robin, keep quiet love ; the good lady, with rolls 
and butter, will come soon.” 

Mrs. Grimes came in with a basket of provisions, and 
everything necessary for the sick boy and his starving 
mother. 

And Peter Larkins came over with a rocking-chair for 
Mrs. Duval, and a cradle for the baby, and some finely split 
30 


354 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


wood to kindle a fire, as the evening was becoming cool. 
Mrs. Larkins brought a comfort or two, and held the baby, 
while Mrs. Grimes fixed the bed- for the sick boy. A bright 
lamp was also cheering the room. 

“Mamma, we will not see the dark to-night; the lamp 
won't let us — will it ?” said Bobin, as he gazed with rap- 
ture at the lamp, which the kind ladies had placed over the 
chimney. Many a dark hour had he hid his face in his 
wretched mother’s lap, trembling with fear and apprehen- 
sion. Children never love darkness. 

Bobin soon began to mend, and with such excellent 
nursing, his strength soon returned, and he was able to 
creep out again to the door-sill. Clarence had never been 
home since his interview with Mrs. Grimes. When he first 
came to Hap-Hazard, he made himself known as an Odd 
Fellow, but after he began to drink hard again, he neglected 
this association as well as his other advantages. Since the 
illness of Bobin, the Odd Fellows attended very closely to 
his family. The members of the church gathered around 
poor Kate with the warmest cordiality. They nursed her 
during her illness, for she also had taken the measles, and 
was very ill for weeks. The extreme illness of the mother 
subjected the baby to a diet which disagreed with its con- 
stitution. It sickened, drooped, and no medicine — no cure 
could restore it. It became weaker and weaker every day, 
and before the last smile of Indian summer had faded from 
the sky, the angels had come for her. The little violet eyes 
slept their last sleep; its tiny hands were folded on its 
bosom, and its hair lay like a sunbeam on its milk-white 
brow. 

They laid it out on a little table, and placed it under the 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


355 


front window, and hung there a snowy curtain to exclude 
the light; but the fragrance of honeysuckles, which crept 
through the broken window to the chamber and laid on 
the worm-eaten sill, breathed over the baby corpse. 

All was still, for the watcher’s heart was meekly bowing 
to the will of Him who knows our burdens. 

It was dark in the room where the child lay, when some 
one took a candle and led Mrs. Duval in to look upon its 
features for the last time. She leaned over it — kissed its 
little lips — laid her hand upon the sunny tress that filleted 
its brow, and tears fell fast upon its folded hands. 

“ When shall these eyes, my babe, he sealed 
As peacefully as thine ?” 

Just then a white hand was protruded through the win- 
dow-pane and clenched the face of the corpse. 

A wild scream, and poor Kate, terrified, fell exhausted 
into the arms of her kind attendant. 

“ He was there ! it was his hand !” cried Kate, in great 
excitement ; “ I saw it. Clarence was there !” 

“ There is no one there,” replied Larkins; “I have 
searched every place.” 

“ I saw him ; his hand touched the child’s face — he was 
pale and had a black patch over his eye.” 

The corpse was moved away from the window, and Peter 
Larkins promised that it should not be left alone ; and Kate 
retired to bed to weep and mourn, not over the dead that 
the Lord had taken, but the living. 

Long after the neighborhood had become perfectly quiet, 
Mrs. Grimes, Mrs. Jenkins, and Peter Larkins, and several 
others were watching the corpse, sitting in the room where 
it lay. They were telling, in a low voice, wonderful ghost 


356 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


stories and horrible incidents of the dead coming to life 
and the Jiving being frightened to death. 

“ Dear, bless me, Peter,” said Mrs. Grimes ; “ don’t you 
mind the time, when there was such a hub -bub in Rich- 
mond about old Uncle Gabriel’s insurrection?” 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Grimes, I had not the privilege of 
being born at that remarkable period.” 

“ Well, you have heard tell of it; for there never was 
such a night before or since, nor such a rain since the 
deluge. In an hour’s time Bacon Quarter branch raised so 
high, that the negroes could not cross it — so all their 
schemes failed.” 

“ So the old black General was caught?” said Peter. 

“ Yes, and hung,” continued Mrs. Grimes ; “ I was but 
a very small child, but I remember the terrible night ; it was 
a general rain, such as never has been since my recollec- 
tion. Well, that very night mother and Polly Grimes, 
that is, John’s sister ” 

“ Oh, yes!” said Peter; “I know her very well — Mrs. 
Bland, as is.” 

“As I was saying, Polly and mother and Jimmy Roane, 
and lots of others were sitting up with old Mr. Grimshaw’s 
corpse ; he had died the night before in his chair. No one 
knew it until morning. He was laid out in the morning ; 
but they could not straighten his limbs at all. He looked 
very horrible, sitting up so still and ghastly with his mouth 
wide open and his eyes so distended and glassy. That 
was the way he was, when they first discovered that he was 
dead, and they could not get him to appear much better.” 

“ How unnatural a dead person looks in a sitting pos- 
ture,” remarked Peter. 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


357 


“ Dreadfully, ” replied Mrs. Grimes; “.well, as I was 
telling you, the wind blew the mournfullest I ever heard, 
and the limbs of the big sycamore rubbed against the old 
piazza, sounding just like the wailings of an infant. It 
seemed too, that every living creature was possessed ; the 
horses were neighing, the cows bellowing, and the peafowls 
screeched ; the dogs growled as if fearfully beset. After 
supper — oh, yes ! long after supper, mother and I went to 
bed and left Polly and Jim sitting up ; after a while, Polly 
got sleepy and went up in the loft and laid down with the 
children. Jim, you know, was very poor company at best, 
let alone such a dull occasion ; so Polly give out, and being 
left quite alone, Jim fell asleep and he slept so sound that 
it seemed to him (he said afterward) just like a trance. 
He heard noises in the room — a low whispering ; sometimes 
he dreamed the corpse had raised itself up on the cooling 
board and straightened itself up ; then it appeared to be 
himself that was laid out, and he tried to move and could 
not — some one was pressing him down with a large stone. 
It would have made your hair stand on eend to hear him tell 
it ! Some thought he had taken too much crab-apple cider 
on his cherrybounce — how that was, I can’t say ; but he 
denied it flatly. All at once, Jim saw the candle flare and 
he started up from his sleep, and — Laws-a-me ! Mr. Lar- 
kins, didn’t you hear something at the window?” 

“ I guess it is a night-hawk in the tree — go on, Mrs. 
Grimes.” 

“ When Jim Roane riz up,” continued Mrs. Grimes, 
“ what should he see but old Mr. Grimshaw sitting bolt up 
in his chair, with his arms hanging down quite limber and 
his feet pressed out easy like ” 




358 Mrs. Ben Darby. 

“ Had he come to life again ?” asked Mrs. Jenkins. 

“ Well, they thought so at first, but after they summoned 
up courage enough to go up to him, they found out it was 
only his clothes stuffed up on a pillow, to represent 
him !” 

“ And where was the corpse ?” asked Peter. 

“That has never been known to this day — it is a 
mystery that will never be cleared until the great day.” 

“ How could it get away ?” asked Susan. 

“Why, the doctors stole it while Jim was in his trance.” 

“Listen!” cried Mrs. Jenkins; “some one is at the 
window ! Go, Mr. Larkins, and see who it is. Just then 
an arm was pushed through the broken pane, and the cur- 
tain lifted. I should not wonder if it was the doctor’s stu- 
dents trying to steal the corpse !” 

“ How you talk !” 

“Indeed, I should not; they come, sometimes, all the 
way from Cincinnati for them. They took up Elam Lamb’s 
wife’s brother-in-law’s step-child, that died last Christmas!” 

“ You don’t say so !” 

“ Indeed they did !” 

Peter returned with information that accounted for the 
interruption. Clarence Duval had been seen twice at the 
window. Some of the citizens were trying to take him, 
but he had eluded their pursuit, and had, they presumed, 
secreted himself in some grogshop. 

“ Is there any one in this community vile enough to as- 
sist him in his unmanly ways?” asked Mrs. Jenkins. 

“ Yes, madam, in every community.” 

“ It is time the law was taking hold — there is no other 
hope left !” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


359 


“Duval,” said Mr. Larkins, “ lias drank up liis law 
library, and ” 

“ Laws me ! I always heard say that the law was the 
driest thing in nature !” said Mrs. Jenkins, laughing. 

“ Yes, but like everything else, it can, madam, be turned 
into cocktails and smashes /” 

“ Well, really,” said Mrs. Saul Jenkins, “I wish in my 
heart ” 

What she was going to wish for, I never knew, for just 
at that instant, some of the neighbors came in, forcing 
Clarence along with them ; they had found him, but he was 
delirious, and under the influence of a violent fever ; his 
clothes were all gone, except his shirt and pants — his head 
was covered with an old hat, which had lost half of its 
brim, and a good portion of its crown ; all trace of its ori- 
ginal shape or fashion was gone. It would have been a 
perfect enigma to le roi des chapeliers — the immortal 
Genin. 

He had sold his clothes, and everything he could steal 
from home, to one of those human vampires who infest 
every city and village in the Union, where the law has 
guaranteed them indemnification for all efforts to suppress 
their outrages on the social orders of life. 

Clarence Duval had drank until he had become a perfect 
wreck in mind and body. During his absence, he had fre- 
quently returned at night, and looked in at the family, 
through a broken pane in the window- sash, but seeing 
strangers administering to their necessities, he dared not 
show his face. Miserable and sick, he secreted himself in 
a nauseous cellar, from which he could, at times, steal forth 
to renew his bottle of “ red eye.” 


360 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


The night the baby was a corpse, he imagined that some- 
thing wrong was in progress at his deserted home. He re- 
solved to linger about the premises to satisfy his curiosity, 
and also for the purpose of stealing out his last law book, 
which laid upon the little table by the window. He thought 
to put his hand through and seize it, but instead of the 
book, his hand pressed the face of his dead child — his 
daughter ! 

Struck with horror, he rushed from the spot into the ad- 
joining woods. From this moment, it seems, his mind was 
entirely unbalanced by the horrible sensations which seized 
upon him. Why he returned again, no one knows, unless 
it was instinct drawing him to her alone of all the world 
that loved him. 

Those who were watching for him, found him and 
brought him to the house — he had fallen into a fit of long 
duration; when it passed off, he was a maniac. They con- 
fined him with cords to his bed. He either suffered violent 
paroxysms, or lay perfectly insensible to everything around 
him. 

The Odd Fellows, with the assistance of the kind citizens 
of Hap-Hazard, did all they could to render Mrs. Duval 
the aid she so much needed. 


Mrs. Ben Darby - . 


361 


C jj a |i 1 1 r 3 5. 

Thou bonuie gem. — B urns. 

The little coffin was lowered to its narrow home, and 
Maria sleeps where the kind, warm-hearted friends laid 
her — those who had picked her up like a jewel by the 
wayside. 

In the grave-yard at Hap-Hazard, under a juniper-tree, 
you can find a white marble slab ; it bears this simple line 
of Burns, 

“Thou bonnie gem. 5 ’ 

Kate, weak and heart-broken, lingered about her 
wretched husband until nature failed, and she was again 
brought to a bed of pain and suffering, from which she 
did not rise until long after her husband was laid under the 
clods of the valley. 

His death — I cannot record the awful demoniac senti- 
ments and phrases, that composed that terrific drama. 
They have passed from my memory like some sacrilegious 
fantasy — some unholy dream, leaving only the thrill and 
pathos, chilling the heart, and curdling the blood ; but I 
never can forget how he looked, with eyes gleaming like 
phosphoric rays from their dark, deep cavities, muttering 
incoherent and unknown sounds — striking the air with 
his clenched fists — defying the world to mortal combat — 
— screaming and crying — now prostrate, rolling, and wal- 
31 


362 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


lowing — blaspheming — battling an army of imaginary 
devils — now sinking into torpidity — now locked in the rigid 
embrace of a revolting slumber — his eyes terne, and half 
open — his mouth ajar, crusted with the froth that issued 
from his bloated lips, and gurgled down his moustache. 
His whole nature was paralyzed. All effort to arouse 
him, a mockery — hopeless and helpless. He expired 
amid the shrieks of his own blasphemies. All prospect of 
heaven blotted out forever, he writhes in vivid anticipation 
of all the horrors that have ever been imagined of that 
dark region ! — region of black despair ! 

This is the finishing stroke to the dram-seller’s work; he 
sends his victim to an immaculate bar, without a prepara- 
tion — without a plea ; what cares he, so that he gathers the 
blistering pennies — certificates of future torments — for his 
heart is callous to repentance — hermetically sealed to good- 
ness and to truth. 

The non slave-holder and the abolitionist may dwell 
upon the horrid features of the “negro-buyer,” the infer- 
nal trafficker in human gore — in human flesh ! tearing 
asunder all the ties of consanguinity and love ; separating 
the mother from the infant that draws its life from her bo- 
som ; tearing the husband from the wife of his youth with- 
out one hope of re-union in this valley of sojourn ; consign- 
ing them to hardships and slavery. But, after all, what is 
he, compared to the monster of civil society ! the liquor- 
vender — the dram-maker. 

The former may part the mother from the child — the 
wife and husband ; but away off in the land of their cap- 
tivity, w r ith merciless task-masters, toil, and starvation, yea, 
in bodily torture, the unchained spirit — the redeemed soul — 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


363 


free from the shackles of the oppressor, flies back to the 
memory of a mother’s love — a father’s blessing ; and the 
poor slave that is pressing sugar or gathering cotton in the 
plantations, can think of God and of Him who died to save 
him ; he can pray and hold communion with angels, and be 
w r afted, by prayer and faith, to endless beatitude ; like 
Moses, he can look beyond his pilgrimage, and survey the 
promised land, and rejoice in the hope of immortality and 
bliss, in that region of freedom and happiness that lies 
beyond the valley of death. He can bear, unmoved, “ the 
world’s dread scorn,” nor heed its smile of pity, and while 
he is toiling beneath a blistering sun, he can sing : 

“ Let cares like a wild deluge come, 

Let storms of sorrow fall, 

So I but safely reach my home, 

My God, my Heaven, my all.’ 4 * 

The “ negro-buyer” may sell the sinews, the flesh and 
the strength ; but the mind ! the soul ! no, he cannot barter 
them for gold ! 

Behold ! the liquor-seller, the dram-retailer, in his ac- 
cursed stall ; he is coining the widow’s tears — the orphan’s 
hopes ; he is speculating in human reason ; buying up the 
feeble efforts of nature to retrieve its lost powers ; he sells 
the soul to endless perdition ; the weak — the tempted, for 
a shilling ; with poisonous and corrosive merchandise, he 
burns out the last remains of virtue ; and with his Circean 
cup, “ drugged with the deadly hellebore,” destroys every 
principle of morality, and turns man to a brute. 

All the ties of domestic life are riven in twain ; the son 
murders the mother who bore him ! the mother, the infant 
smiling at her breast ! the husband curses the wife. Inno- 


364 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


cent souls are decoyed within his circle — rifled, and left 
to the worlds mercy. What is it that the dram-seller docs 
not do that is heinous and demoralizing ? Genius, as ambi- 
tious and soaring as Icarus, is prostrated in the dust — to 
the filth of the gutter ; the soul is incarcerated in utter 
darkness — in despair. He does all this in the present cen- 
tury of order, knowledge, peace and religion ; he is shunned 
by the good ; despised even by those who seek his domi- 
cile. Lifting the mask from his hideous face, he can say, 
as the terrible Mokhanna : 


Here, judge if Ilell, ■with all its powers to damn. 
Can add one curse to the vile thing I am.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


365 


CnntluBtnn. 

After the burial of her husband and child, Mrs. Duval 
wrote home for assistance and advice, and it was not until 
Peter Larkins carried the letter to the post-office, that he 
discovered she belonged to the Temple family ; it is useless 
to say that this information was very pleasing to the Wolf- 
Gap friends, and drew the young widow still closer to the 
sympathetic hearts of her neighbors ; she acknowledged in 
the depths of her grateful soul she could never repay them 
for their kindness ; and that one who wished to live unpi- 
tied and uncared for, must seek the crowded city, where 
scenes of wretchedness destroy the refinement of the feel- 
ings, and, by degrees, harden the heart, until it becomes 
suspicious and selfish. 

When Mrs. Duval returned to New York, she was ac- 
companied by Mrs. Grimes and the Larkinses, who were 
invited to spend the winter in the city; Theodore and Elinor 
were to be married during their stay. 

Mrs. Duval was so very much caressed in Hap-Hazard, 
that she left it with many bitter regrets, although she suffered 
severe trials and mortifications ; yet she was leaving in it 
the graves of her husband and child — the beloved dead — 


366 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


the sacred and holy tie that binds the restless heart ever to 
one spot. It matters not where the precious one reposes ; 
it may be on the lone hill-side, where travelers scooped its 
grave ; it may lie beneath the marble of Italy, or the sculp- 
ture of a Canova , or beneath the ocean’s waves, in “a 
deep bed of whispering reeds ;” yet, a mother’s heart 
and a wife’s memory can never forget the silent spot ; in 
hours of solitude and commemoration, the sad heart lingers 
there, like a pilgrim at his shrine, when it is forgotten 
and deserted by all the world beside — such is a true 
woman’s love. 

Mrs. Duval loved the West — its plain manners, and its 
blunt but straight-forward, go-ahead kindness. It is true 
she found it mixed up with a little curiosity, a small por- 
tion of officiousness, and sometimes palpably destitute of 
the refinement of sensibility ; still there was so much of the 
pure milk of human kindness, a just appreciation of the 
requirements and the necessities of the stranger, that all 
minor delinquencies were forgiven and forgotten. 

There were many crude remarks made on Mrs. Grimes’s 
visit to New York. Mrs. Berryman wondered why such 
an old-fashioned body as she could think of exhibiting 
herself in the city; how would she look on Broadway, 
trying on gloves at Stewart’s, or eating lunch at Taylor’s, 
or figuring at the Crystal Palace, if she stays so long. 

These little inuendoes were maliciously repeated to the 
good lady ; she laughed in her benign manner and said : 
“ Don’t be uneasy, my dear children; I will try and not 
bring disgrace upon Hap-Hazard, but represent it to the 
best of my ability.” 


Mrs. Ben Darby. 


367 


A letter has been received from her since her arrival in 
the city, which brought the pleasing intelligence of the 
contemplated removal of Mrs. Duval and her mother to 
the West. 

I suppose they will find room in Hap-Hazard; if not, 
the Hoosier land is long and wide, and there is no spot in 
it so arid or forlorn but the weary may find in it rest, and 
the sufferer sympathy and kindness. 



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OR THE 

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One Volume, 1 2mo. 

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we have perused in a long time. The object of the writer — the great moral 
of the sketches of Social Life which are contained in it— is to present in a 
strong and vivid light the blighting influences of intemperance upon the hap- 
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the authoress has been able in this volume to give it great interest, by blend- 
ing with it a very excellent story. 

“ The style in which it is written is attractive and fascinating — there is 
a freshness and originality about it that is very pleasing. The authoress, like 
most female writers, excels in her descriptions of conversations, which are 
easy and natural, and that, in our opinion, is a most important feature in all 
works of fiction. In many novels the characters are made to speak in an un- 
natural manner, not at all in harmony with the parts assigned them — but in 
this work one of its chief merits is the excellence of its conversations. 

“ The moral reflections necessarily connected with the theme which is the 
basis of the story, are characterized by good sense, and some of them are truly 
eloquent, suggestive of thought to the reader, and they indicate that the 
authoress possesses literary abilities of no ordinary kind 

“ It is through moral and persuasive means, after all, that the opponents 
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injurious results upon the happiness of the race should be pressed home upon 
the convictions of every one, and as a means of so doing, this Weal and Woe 
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Christian Herald. 

11 Its scenes are laid inVirginia, in New York city, and in the Hoosier State. 
In all these various localities, the authoress seems equally at home, and por- 
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this kind of writing of high promise Has so many thrilling pas- 

sages and well-drawn characters, that you read it with absorbed attention. It 
cannot fail to achieve for Mrs. Collins an enviable popularity, and to do much 
good. We need just such books— books that portray the vices of fashionable 
life— that show how the first step is taken toward ruin 

11 Our authoress follows her characters through all the stages of their degra- 
dation and guilt. She goes with them to the Five Points, to the Tombs, and 

to the Hospital She takes us with her to the drunkard’s home. 

She tells of the hunger and the fear, the toil and the suffering that are there. 
She paints, with a woman’s delicate skill, the meek patience, the long-abused, 
but unchanging love of the drunkard’s wife. In such delineations, she seems 
peculiarly at home. She touches the deepest chords of the heart, and makes 
them vibrate with pity and with indignation.” 

Gazette. 

11 Presented with a power and vividness which, we hope, will be sufficient to 
cause many a reader already treading in this fatal path, to turn back ere it 
becomes impossible to avoid the destruction to which it leads.” 


/ 


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New Albany Tribune. 

“ Mrs. Ben Darby, ok the Weal and Woe oe Social Life. By A. Maria 
Collins. Cincinnati, Mooke, Anderson & Co. Though Mrs. Collins has 
already hosts of admirers of her literary productions, this work, we predict, 
will increase that number ten-fold, and give her a reputation worthy of her 
high talents. Mrs. Ben Darby is a moral and temperance story, and presents, 
in vivid and life-like pictures, the foibles of social life, and the evils which 
followibe footsteps of those who 1 tarry long at the wine.’ The objects of the 
work deserve the highest praise. While it is highly instructive from its moral 
teachings, it contains all the interest that is usually thrown around works of 
fiction by our best writers.” 

Presbyterian of the West. 

“A deeply interesting, and in passages of it, a powerful work. It vividly 
portrays some of the terrific exploits of strong drink in both high and low 
life. Nor are such scenes, as it depicts, either imaginary or few. God’s bright 
sun and beautiful stars look down perpetually on many such, all over our coun- 
try. Slavery, hateful as it is, is less a curse to body and soul than Intempe- 
rance. Nothing degrades the whole man so low beneath the very brutes, as rum. 

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sure of popular opinion. Each are equally hearty protests against wrong and 
injustice. There is in both the same unflinching grappling with the terrible 
facts; evincing remarkable courage in a woman. Shunning nothing that can 
add a new terror to the tale of misery, the authoress of Mrs. Ben Darby has 
followed the vice of drunkenness to all its haunts, and has sketched it in its 
daintiest form of fascination, as well as in its grim and dismal aspect of open 
degradation. Barely has a woman ventured to hold the torch to such a dark 
recess of human woe.” 

Dayton Empire. 

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Daily Ancieut Metropolis. 

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soul. To those who hope to see their country imitating that proud contempt 
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Eoraan Bcpublic, rather than that disgraceful surrender to them which hast- 
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thirty-fourth chapter. It is indeed a Gem. We doubt whether the celebrated chapter de- 
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most powerful temperance tale that we ever perused.” 


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SERVICE AFLOAT AND ASHORE during the Mexican 
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nature than battle fields. * # * After sailing about the Gulf, and 
cruising from Vera Cruz to Mexico and back again with our author, we 
have arrived at the conclusion that he is as pleasant a companion as one 
might desire upon a similar journey, and so commend him to the favor 
of the reading public.” — Literary World. 


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